LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY©* 

CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


THE  LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER? 

AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


THE  LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER? 


AND   OTHER    STORIES 


BY 


FRANK    R.  STOCKTON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1897. 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNEK'S  SONS. 


of 

38erhrick  &  Smttfj, 
Boston. 


L3 


CONTESTS. 


PAQB 

THE  LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER? 1 

THE  TRANSFERRED   GHOST 11 

THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE 28 

OUR  ARCHERY    CLUB 52 

THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON 74 

HIS  WIFE'S  DECEASED  SISTER 99 

OUR  STORY 115 

MR.  TOLMAN  .  134 

ON  THE  TRAINING  OF  PARENTS    .        .        .        .        .        .        .166 

OUR  FIRE-SCREEN 178 

A  PIECE  OF  RED  CALICO 187 

EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER       ....      195 

T 


THE  LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER? 


IN  the  very  olden  time,  there  lived  a  semi-barbaric 
king,  whose  ideas,  though  somewhat  polished  and 
sharpened  by  the  progressiveness  of  distant  Latin 
neighbors,  were  still  large,  florid,  and  untrammelled, 
as  became  the  half  of  him  which  was  barbaric.  He  was 
a  man  of  exuberant  fancy,  and,  withal,  of  an  authority 
so  irresistible  that,  at  his  will,  he  turned  his  varied 
fancies  into  facts.  He  was  greatly  given  to  self- 
communing ;  and,  when  he  and  himself  agreed  upon 
any  thing,  the  thing  was  done.  When  every  member 
of  his  domestic  and  political  systems  moved  smoothly  in 
its  appointed  course,  his  nature  was  bland  and  genial ; 
but  whenever  there  was  a  little  hitch,  and  some  of  his 
orbs  got  out  of  their  orbits,  he  was  blander  and  more 
genial  still,  for  nothing  pleased  him  so  much  as  to 
make  the  crooked  straight,  and  crush  down  uneven 
places. 

Among  the  borrowed  notions  by  which  his  barbarism 
had  become  semified  was  that  of  the  public  arena,  in 
which,  by  exhibitions  of  manly  and  beastly  valor,  the 
minds  of  his  subjects  were  refined  and  cultured. 

1 


2  THE  LADY,   OR   THE  TIGER  f 

But  even  here  the  exuberant  and  barbaric  fancy  as- 
serted itself.  The  arena  of  the  king  was  built,  not  to 
give  the  people  an  opportunity  of  hearing  the  rhapso- 
dies of  dying  gladiators,  nor  to  enable  them  to  view  the 
inevitable  conclusion  of  a  conflict  between  religious 
opinions  and  hungry  jaws,  but  for  purposes  far  better 
adapted  to  widen  and  develop  the  mental  energies  of 
the  people.  This  vast  amphitheatre,  with  its  encircling 
galleries,  its  mysterious  vaults,  and  its  unseen  passages, 
was  an  agent  of  poetic  justice,  in  which  crime  was  pun- 
ished, or  virtue  rewarded,  by  the  decrees  of  an  impar- 
tial and  incorruptible  chance. 

When  a  subject  was  accused  of  a  crime  of  sufficient 
importance  to  interest  the  king,  public  notice  was  given 
that  on  an  appointed  day  the  fate  of  the  accused  per- 
son would  be  decided  in  the  king's  arena,  —  a  structure 
which  well  deserved  its  name ;  for,  although  its  form 
and  plan  were  borrowed  from  afar,  its  purpose  ema- 
nated solely  from  the  brain  of  this  man,  who,  every 
barleycorn  a  king,  knew  no  tradition  to  which  he  owed 
more  allegiance  than  pleased  his  fancy,  and  who  in- 
grafted on  every  adopted  form  of  human  thought  and 
action  the  rich  growth  of  his  barbaric  idealism. 

When  all  the  people  had  assembled  in  the  galleries, 
and  the  king,  surrounded  by  his  court,  sat  high  up  on 
his  throne  of  royal  state  on  one  side  of  the  arena,  he 
gave  a  signal,  a  door  beneath  him  opened,  and  the 
accused  subject  stepped  out  into  the  amphitheatre. 
Directly  opposite  him,  on  the  other  side  of  the  enclosed 
space,  were  two  doors,  exactly  alike  and  side  by  side. 
It  was  the  duty  and  the  privilege  of  the  person  on  trial, 


THE  LADY,  OR   THE  TIGEE  ?  3 

to  walk  directly  to  these  doors  and  open  one  of  them. 
He  could  open  either  door  he  pleased  :  he  was  subject  to 
no  guidance  or  influence  but  that  of  the  aforementioned 
impartial  and  incorruptible  chance.  If  he  opened  the 
one,  there  came  out  of  it  a  hungry  tiger,  the  fiercest  and 
most  cruel  that  could  be  procured,  which  immediately 
sprang  upon  him,  and  tore  him  to  pieces,  as  a  punish- 
ment for  his  guilt.  The  moment  that  the  case  of  the 
criminal  was  thus  decided,  doleful  iron  bells  were 
clanged,  great  wails  went  up  from  the  hired  mourners 
posted  on  the  outer  rim  of  the  arena,  and  the  vast  audi- 
ence, with  bowed  heads  and  downcast  hearts,  wended 
slowly  their  homeward  way,  mourning  greatly  that  one 
so  young  and  fair,  or  so  old  and  respected,  should  have 
merited  so  dire  a  fate. 

But,  if  the  accused  person  opened  the  other  door, 
there  came  forth  from  it  a  lady,  the  most  suitable  to 
his  years  and  station  that  his  majesty  could  select 
among  his  fair  subjects ;  and  to  this  lady  he  was  im- 
mediately married,  as  a  reward  of  his  innocence.  It 
mattered  not  that  he  might  already  possess  a  wife  and 
family,  or  that  his  affections  might  be  engaged  upon 
an  object  of  his  own  selection  :  the  king  allowed  no 
such  subordinate  arrangements  to  interfere  with  his 
great  scheme  of  retribution  and  reward.  The  exercises, 
as  in  the  other  instance,  took  place  immediately,  and 
in  the  arena.  Another  door  opened  beneath  the  king, 
and  a  priest,  followed  by  a  band  of  choristers,  and 
dancing  maidens  blowing  joyous  airs  on  golden  horns 
and  treading  an  epithalamic  measure,  advanced  to 
where  the  pair  stood,  side  by  side ;  and  the  wedding 


4  THE  LADY,   OR    THE   TIGER? 

was  promptly  and  cheerily  solemnized.  Then  the  gay 
brass  bells  rang  forth  their  merry  peals,  the  people 
shouted  glad  hurrahs,  and  the  innocent  man,  preceded 
by  children  strewing  flowers  on  his  path,  led  his  bride 
to  his  home. 

This  was  the  king's  semi-barbaric  method  of  admin- 
istering justice.  Its  perfect  fairness  is  obvious.  The 
criminal  could  not  know  out  of  which  door  would  come 
the  lady  :  he  opened  either  he  pleased,  without  having 
the  slightest  idea  whether,  in  the  next  instant,  he  was 
to  be  devoured  or  married.  On  some  occasions  the 
tiger  came  out  of  one  door,  and  on  some  out  of  the 
other.  The  decisions  of  this  tribunal  were  not  only 
fair,  they  were  positively  determinate :  the  accused 
person  was  instantly  punished  if  he  found  himself 
guilty  ;  and,  if  innocent,  he  was  rewarded  on  the  spot, 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  There  was  no  escape  from 
the  judgments  of  the  king's  arena. 

The  institution  was  a  very  popular  one.  When  the 
people  gathered  together  on  one  of  the  great  trial 
days,  they  never  knew  whether  they  were  to  witness  a 
bloody  slaughter  or  a  hilarious  wedding.  This  element 
of  uncertainty  lent  an  interest  to  the  occasion  which  it 
could  not  otherwise  have  attained.  Thus,. the  masses 
were  entertained  and  pleased,  and  the  thinking  part  of 
the  community  could  bring  no  charge  of  unfairness 
against  this  plan ;  for  did  not  the  accused  pers  n 
have  the  whole  matter  in  his  own  hands  ? 

This  semi-barbaric  king  had  a  daughter  as  blooming 
as  his  most  florid  fancies,  and  with  a  soul  as  fervent 
and  imperious  as  his  own.  As  is  usual  in  such  cases, 


THE  LADY,   OR   THE  TIGER?  5 

she  was  the  apple  of  his  eye,  and  was  loved  by  him 
above  all  humanity.  Among  his  courtiers  was  a  young 
man  of  that  fineness  of  blood  and  lowness  of  station 
common  to  the  conventional  heroes  of  romance  who 
love  royal  maidens.  This  royal  maiden  was  well  satis- 
fied with  her  lover,  for  he  was  handsome  and  brave  to  a 
degree  unsurpassed  in  all  this  kingdom  ;  and  she  loved 
him  with  an  ardor  that  had  enough  of  barbarism  in  it 
to  make  it  exceedingly  warm  and  strong.  This  love 
affair  moved  on  happily  for  many  months,  until  one 
day  the  king  happened  to  discover  its  existence.  He 
did  not  hesitate  nor  waver  in  regard  to  his  duty  in  the 
premises.  The  youth  was  immediately  cast  into  prison, 
and  a  day  was  appointed  for  his  trial  in  the  king's 
arena.  This,  of  course,  was  an  especially  important 
occasion ;  and  his  majesty,  as  well  as  all  the  people, 
was  greatly  interested  in  the  workings  and  develop- 
ment of  this  trial.  Never  before  had  such  a  case 
occurred ;  never  before  had  a  subject  dared  to  love 
the  daughter  of  a  king.  In  after-years  such  things 
became  commonplace  enough;  but  then  they  were,  in 
no  slight  degree,  novel  and  startling. 

The  tiger-cages  of  the  kingdom  were  searched  for 
the  most  savage  and  relentless  beasts,  from  which  the 
fiercest  monster  might  be  selected  for  the  arena ;  and 
the  ranks  of  maiden  youth  and  beauty  throughout  the 
land  were  carefully  surveyed  by  competent  judges,  in 
order  that  the  young  man  might  have  a  fitting  bride  in 
case  fate  did  not  determine  for  him  a  different  destiny. 
Of  course,  everybody  knew  that  the  deed  with  which 
the  accused  was  charged  had  been  done.  He  had 


6  THE  LADY,   OR   THE  TIGER  f 

loved  the  princess,  and  neither  he,  she,  nor  any  one 
else  thought  of  denying  the  fact ;  but  the  king  would 
not  think  of  allowing  any  fact  of  this  kind  to  interfere 
with  the  workings  of  the  tribunal,  in  which  he  took 
such  great  delight  and  satisfaction.  No  matter  how 
the  affair  turned  out,  the  youth  would  be  disposed 
of ;  and  the  king  would  take  an  aesthetic  pleasure  in 
watching  the  course  of  events,  which  would  determine 
whether  or  not  the  young  man  had  done  wrong  ill 
allowing  himself  to  love  the  princess. 

The  appointed  day  arrived.  From  far  and  near  the 
people  gathered,  and  thronged  the  great  galleries  of 
the  arena ;  and  crowds,  unable  to  gain  admittance, 
massed  themselves  against  its  outside  walls.  The 
king  and  his  court  were  in  their  places,  opposite  the 
twin  doors,  —  those  fateful  portals,  so  terrible  in  their 
similarity. 

All  was  ready.  The  signal  was  given.  A  door 
beneath  the  royal  party  opened,  and  the  lover  of  the 
princess  walked  into  the  arena.  Tall,  beautiful,  fair, 
his  appearance  was  greeted  with  a  low  hum  of  admira- 
tion and  anxiety.  Half  the  audience  had  not  known 
so  grand  a  youth  had  lived  among  them.  No  wonder 
the  princess  loved  him !  What  a  terrible  thing  for 
him  to  be  there  ! 

As  the  youth  advanced  into  the  arena,  he  turned,  as 
the  custom  was,  to  bow  to  the  king :  but  he  did  not 
think  at  all  of  that  royal  personage ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  princess,  who  sat  to  the  right  of  her 
father.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  moiety  of  barbarism 
in  her  nature,  it  is  probable  that  lady  would  not  have 


THE  LADY,   OE   THE  TIGER  f  7 

been  there  ;  but  her  intense  and  fervid  soul  would  not 
allow  her  to  be  absent  on  an  occasion  in  which  she 
was  so  terribly  interested.  From  the  moment  that  the 
decree  had  gone  forth,  that  her  lover  should  decide  his 
fate  in  the  king's  arena,  she  had  thought  of  nothing, 
night  or  day,  but  this  great  event  and  the  various  sub- 
jects connected  with  it.  Possessed  of  more  power, 
influence,  and  force  of  character  than  any  one  who 
had  ever  before  been  interested  in  such  a  case,  she  had 
done  what  no  other  person  had  done,  —  she  had  pos- 
sessed herself  of  the  secret  of  the  doors.  She  knew  in 
which  of  the  two  rooms,  that  lay  behind  those  doors, 
stood  the  cage  of  the  tiger,  with  its  open  front,  and  in 
which  waited  the  lady.  Through  these  thick  doors, 
heavily  curtained  with  skins  on  the  inside,  it  was 
impossible  that  any  noise  or  suggestion  should  come 
from  within  to  the  person  who  should  approach  to 
raise  the  latch  of  one  of  them  ;  but  gold,  and  the 
power  of  a  woman's  will,  had  brought  the  secret  to 
the  princess. 

And  not  only  did  she  know  in  which  room  stood  the 
lady  ready  to  emerge,  all  blushing  and  radiant,  should 
her  door  be  opened,  but  she  knew  who  the  lady  was. 
It  was  one  of  the  fairest  and  loveliest  of  the  damsels 
of  the  court  who  had  been  selected  as  the  reward  of 
the  accused  youth,  should  he  be  proved  innocent  of  the 
crime  of  aspiring  to '  one  so  far  above  him;  and  the 
princess  hated  her,  ^  Of  ten  had  she  seen,  or  imagined 
that  she  had  seen,  this  fair  creature  throwing  glances 
of  admiration  upon  the  person  of  her  lover,  and  some- 
times she  thought  these  glances  were  perceived  and 


8  THE  LADY,   OP    THE  TIGER  f 

even  returned.  Now  and  then  she  had  seen  them  talk- 
ing together ;  it  was  but  for  a  moment  or  two,  but 
much  can  be  said  in  a  brief  space  ;  it  may  have  been 
on  most  unimportant  topics,  but  how  could  she  know 
that?  )  The  girl  was  lovely,  but  she  had  dared  to  raise 
her  eyes  to  the  loved  one  of  the  princess ;  and,  with 
all  the  intensity  of  the  savage  blood  transmitted  to  her 
through  long  lines  of  wholly  barbaric  ancestors,  she 
hated  the  woman  who  blushed  and  trembled  behind 
that  silent  door. 

When  her  lover  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  his  eye 
met  hers  as  she  sat  there  paler  and  whiter  than  any  one 
in  the  vast  ocean  of  anxious  faces  about  her,  he  saw, 
by  that  power  of  quick  perception  which  is  given  to 
those  whose  souls  are  one,  that  she  knew  behind  which 
door  crouched  the  tiger,  and  behind  which  stood  the 
lady.  He  had  expected  her  to  know  it.  He  under- 
stood her  nature,  and  his  soul  was  assured  that  she 
would  never  rest  until  she  had  made  plain  to  herself 
this  thing,  hidden  to  all  other  lookers-on,  even  to  the 
king.  The  only  hope  for  the  youth  in  which  there  was 
any  element  of  certainty  was  based  upon  the  success 
of  the  princess  in  discovering  this  mystery ;  and  the 
moment  he  looked  upon  her,  he  saw  she  had  succeeded, 
as  in  his  soul  he  knew  she  would  succeed. 

Then  it  was  that  his  quick  and  anxious  glance  asked 
the  question:  "Which?"  It  Was  as  plain  to  her  as 
if  he  shouted  it  from  where  he  stood.  There  was  not 
an  instant  to  be  lost.  The  question  was  asked  in  a 
flash  ;  it  must  be  answered  in  another. 

Her  right  arm  lay  on  the  cushioned  parapet  before 


THE  LADY,   OR    THE   TIGER?  9 

her.  She  raised  her  hand,  and  made  a  slight,  quick 
movement  toward  the  right.  No  one  but  her  lover  saw 
her.  Every  eye  but  his  was  fixed  on  the  man  in  the 
arena. 

He  turned,  and  with  a  firm  and  rapid  step  he  walked 
across  the  empty  space.  Every  heart  stopped  beating, 
every  breath  was  held,  every  eye  was  fixed  immovably 
upon  that  man.  Without  the  slightest  hesitation,  he 
went  to  the  door  on  the  right,  and  opened  it. 

Now,  the  point  of  the  story  is  this :  Did  the  tiger 
come  out  of  that  door,  or  did  the  lady? 

The  more  we  reflect  upon  this  question,  the  harder  it 
is  to  answer.  It  involves  a  study  of  the  human  heart 
which  leads  us  through  devious  mazes  of  passion,  out 
of  which  it  is  difficult  to  find  our  way.  Think  of  it, 
fair  reader,  not  as  if  the  decision  of  the  question  de- 
pended upon  yourself,  but  upon  that  hot-blooded,  semi- 
barbaric  princess,  her  soul  at  a  white  heat  beneath  the 
combined  fires  of  despair  and  jealousy.  She  had  lost 
him,  but  who  should  have  him? 

How  o^ten,  in  her  waking  hours  and  in  her  dreams, 
had  she  started  in  wild  horror,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  as  she  thought  of  her  lover  opening 
the  door  on  the  other  side  of  which  waited  the  cruel 
fangs  of  the  tiger  ! 

But  how  much  oftoier  had  she  seen  him  at  the  other 
door !  How  in  her  grievous  reveries  had  she  gnashed 
her  teeth,  and  torn  her  hair,  when  she  saw  his  start  of 
rapturous  delight  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  lady  ! 
How  her  soul  had  burned  in  agony  when  she  had  seen 


10  THE  LADY,   OR   THE  TIGER  ? 

him  rush  to  meet  that  woman,  with  her  flushing  cheek 
and  sparkling  eye  of  triumph  ;  when  she  had  seen  him 
lead  her  forth,  his  whole  frame  kindled  with  the  joy  of 
recovered  life  ;  when  she  had  heard  the  glad  shouts 
from  the  multitude,  and  the  wild  ringing  of  the  happy 
bells ;  when  she  had  seen  the  priest,  with  his  joyous 
followers, .advance  to  the  couple,  and  make  them  man 
and  wife  before  her  very  eyes  ;  and  when  she  had  seen 
them  walk  away  together  upon  their  path  of  flowers,  fol- 
lowed by  the  tremendous  shouts  of  the  hilarious  multi- 
tude, in  which  her  one  despairing  shriek  was  lost  and 
drowned ! 

Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  die  at  once,  and 
go  to  wait  for  her  in  the  blessed  regions  of  semi- 
barbaric  futurity? 

And  yet,  that  awful  tiger,  those  shrieks,  that  blood ! 

Her  decision  had  been  indicated  in  an  instant,  but 
it  had  been  made  aftei  days  and  nights  of  anguished 
deliberation.  She  had  known  she  would  be  asked,  she 
had  decided  what  she  would  answer,  and,  without  the 
slightest  hesitation,  she  had  moved  her  hand  to  the 
right. 

The  question  of  her  decision  is  one  not  to  be  lightly 
considered,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to  presume  to  set  my- 
self up  as  the  one  person  able  to  answer  it.  And  so  I 
leave  it  with  all  of  you  :  Which  came  out  of  the  opened 
door,  —  the  lady,  or  the  tiger  ?  . 


THE  TRANSFERRED  GHOST. 


THE  country  residence  of  Mr.  John  Hinckman  was 
a  delightful  place  to  me,  for  many  reasons.  It 
was  the  abode  of  a  genial,  though  somewhat  impulsive, 
hospitality.  It  had  broad,  smooth-shaven  lawns  and 
towering  oaks  and  elms ;  there  were  bosky  shades  at 
several  points,  and  not  far  from  the  house  there  was  a 
little  rill  spanned  by  a  rustic  bridge  with  the  bark  on  ; 
there  were  fruits  and  flowers,  pleasant  people,  chess, 
billiards,  rides,  walks,  and  fishing.  These  were  great 
attractions  ;  but  none  of  them,  nor  all  of  them  together, 
would  have  been  sufficient  to  hold  me  to  the  place  very 
long.  I  had  been  invited  for  the  trout  season,  but 
should,  probably,  have  finished  my  visit  early  in  the 
summer  had  it  not  been  that  upon  fair  days,  when  the 
grass  was  dry,  and  the  sun  was  not  too  hot,  and  there 
was  but  little  wind,  there  strolled  beneath  the  lofty 
elms,  or  passed  lightly  through  the  bosky  shades,  the 
form  of  my  Madeline. 

This  lady  was  not,  in  very  truth,  my  Madeline.  She 
had  never  given  herself  to  me,  nor  had  I,  in  any  way, 

quired  possession  of  her.  But  as  I  considered  her 

11 


12  THE  TRANSFERRED   GHOST. 

possession  the  only  sufficient  reason  for  the  continu- 
ance of  my  existence,  I  called  her,  in  my  reveries, 
mine.  It  may  have  been  that  I  would  not  have  been 
obliged  to  confine  the  use  of  this  possessive  pronoun 
to  my  reveries  had  I  confessed  the  state  of  my  feelings 
to  the  lady. 

But  this  was  an  unusually  difficult  thing  to  do.  Not 
only  did  I  dread,  as  almost  all  lovers  dread,  taking 
the  step  which  would  in  an  instant  put  an  end  to  that 
delightful  season  which  may  be  termed  the  ante-inter- 
rogatory period  of  love,  and  which  might  at  the  same 
time  terminate  all  intercourse  or  connection  with  the 
object  of  my  passion  ;  but  I  was,  also,  dreadfully  afraid 
of  John  Hinckman.  This  gentleman  was  a  good  friend 
of  mine,  but  it  would  have  required  a  bolder  man  than 
I  was  at  that  time  to  ask  him  for  the  gift  of  his  niece, 
who  was  the  head  of  his  household,  and,  according  to 
his  own  frequent  statement,  the  main  prop  of  his  de- 
clining years.  Had  Madeline  acquiesced  in  my  general 
views  on  the  subject,  I  might  have  felt  encouraged  to 
open  the  matter  to  Mr.  Hinckman ;  but,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, I  had  never  asked  her  whether  or  not  she  would 
be  mine.  I  thought  of  these  things  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  and  night,  particularly  the  latter. 

I  was  lying  awake  one  night,  in  the  great  bed  in  my 
spacious  chamber,  when,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  new 
moon,  which  partially  filled  the  room,  I  saw  John 
Hinckman  standing  by  a  large  chair  near  the  door.  I 
was  very  much  surprised  at  this  for  two  reasons.  In 
the  first  place,  my  host  had  never  before  come  into  my 
room  ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  he  had  gone  from  home 


THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST.  13 

that  morning,  and  had  not  expected  to  return  for  sev- 
eral days.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  I  had  been  able 
that  evening  to  sit  much  later  than  usual  with  Made- 
line on  the  moonlit  porch.  The  figure  was  certainly 
that  of  John  Hinckman  in  his  ordinary  dress,  but  there 
was  a  vagueness  and  indistinctness  about  it  which 
presently  assured  me  that  it  was  a  ghost.  Had  the 
good  old  man  been  murdered  ?  and  had  his  spirit  come 
to  tell  me  of  the  deed,  and  to  confide  to  me  the  protec- 
tion of  his  dear ?  My  heart  fluttered  at  what  I 

was  about  to  think,  but  at  this  instant  the  figure  spoke. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  with  a  countenance  that 
indicated  anxiety,  "  if  Mr.  Hinckman  will  return  to- 
night?" 

I  thought  it  well  to  maintain  a  calm  exterior,  and  I 
answered,  — 

"  We  do  not  expect  him." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  he,  sinking  into  the  chair 
by  which  he  stood.  "  During  the  two  years  and  a  half 
that  I  have  inhabited  this  house,  that  man  has  never 
before  been  away  for  a  single  night.  You  can't  ima- 
gine the  relief  it  gives  me." 

And  as  he  spoke  he  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  leaned 
back  in  the  chair.  His  form  became  less  vague,  and 
the  colors  of  his  garments  more  distinct  and  evident, 
while  an  expression  of  gratified  relief  succeeded  to  the 
anxiety  of  his  countenance. 

"  Two  years  and  a  half  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  don't 
understand  you." 

"It  is  fully  that  length  of  time,"  said  the  ghost, 
"  since  I  first  came  here.  Mine  is  not  an  ordinary 


14  THE  TRANSFERRED  GHOST. 

case.  But  before  I  say  any  thing  more  about  it,  lot 
me  ask  you  again  if  you  are  sure  Mr.  Hinckman  will 
not  return  to-night." 

"I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  I  can  be  of  any  thing,"  I 
answered.  "He  left  to-day  for  Bristol,  two  hundred 
railes  away." 

44  Then  I  will  go  on,"  said  the  ghost,  "  for  I  am  glad 
to  have  the  opportunity  of  talking  to  some  one  who  will 
listen  to  me ;  but  if  John  Hinckman  should  come  in 
and  catch  me  here,  I  should  be  frightened  out  of  my 
wits." 

"This  is  all  very  strange,"  I  said,  greatly  puzzled 
by  what  I  had  heard.  "  Are  you  the  ghost  of  Mr. 
Hinckman?" 

This  was  a  bold  question,  but  my  mind  was  so  full 
of  other  emotions  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  room  for 
that  of  fear. 

"Yes,  I  am  his  ghost,"  my  companion  replied, 
"  and  yet  I  have  no  right  to  be.  And  this  is  what 
makes  me  so  uneasy,  and  so  much  afraid  of  him.  It 
is  a  strange  story,  and,  I  truly  believe,  without  prece- 
dent. Two  years  and  a  half  ago,  John  Hinckman  \vas 
dangerously  ill  in  this  very  room.  At  one  time  he  was 
so  far  gone  that  he  was  really  believed  to  be  dead.  It 
was  in  consequence  of  too  precipitate  a  report  in  regard 
to  this  matter  that  I  was,  jit  that  time,  appointed  to  be 
his  ghost.  Imagine  my  surprise  and  horror,  sir,  when, 
after  I  had  accepted  the  position  and  assumed  its  re- 
sponsibilities, that  old  man  revived,  became  convales- 
cent, and  eventually  regained  his  usual  health.  My 
situation  was  now  one  of  extreme  delicacy  and  embar- 


THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST.  15 

rassment.  I  had  no  power  to  return  to  my  original 
unembodiment,  and  I  had  no  right  to  be  the  ghost  of  a 
man  who  was  not  dead.  I  was  advised  by  my  friends 
to  quietly  maintain  my  position,  and  was  assured  that, 
as  John  Hinckman  was  an  elderly  man,  it  could  not  be 
long  before  I  could  rightfully  assume  the  position  for 
which  I  had  been  selected.  But  I  tell  }^ou,  sir,"  he 
continued,  with  animation,  "the  old  fellow  seems  as 
vigorous  as  ever,  and  I  have  no  idea  how  much  longer 
this  annoying  state  of  things  will  continue.  I  spend 
my  time  trying  to  get  out  of  that  old  man's  way.  I 
must  not  leave  this  house,  and  he  seems  to  follow  me 
everywhere.  I  tell  you,  sir,  he  haunts  me." 

"That  is  truly  a  queer  state  of  things,"  I  remarked. 
"  But  why  are  }*ou  afraid  of  him?  He  couldn't  hurt 
you." 

"  Of  course  he  couldn't,"  said  the  ghost.  "But  his 
very  presence  is  a  shock  and  terror  to  me.  Imagine, 
sir,  how  you  would  feel  if  my  case  were  yours." 

I  could  not  imagine  such  a  thing  at  all.  I  simply 
shuddered. 

"  And  if  one  must  be  a  wrongful  ghost  at  all,"  the 
apparition  continued,  "  it  would  be  much  pleasanter  to 
be  the  ghost  of  some  man  other  than  John  Hinckman. 
There  is  in  him  an  irascibility  of  temper,  accompanied 
by  a  facility  of  invective,  which  is  seldom  met  with. 
And  what  would  happen  if  he  were  to  see  me,  and  find 
out,  as  I  am  sure  he  would,  how  long  and  why  I  had 
inhabited  his  house,  I  can  scarcely  conceive.  I  have 
seen  him  in  his  bursts  of  passion ;  and,  although  he 
did  not  hurt  the  people  he  stormed  at  any  more  than 


16  THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST. 

he  would  hurt  me,  they  seemed  to  shrink  before 
him." 

All  this  I  knew  to  be  very  true.  Had  it  not  been 
for  this  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Hiuckman,  I  might  have 
been  more  willing  to  talk  to  him  about  his  niece. 

44 1  feel  sorry  for  you,"  1  said,  for  I  really  began 
to  have  a  sympathetic  feeling  toward  this  unfortunate 
apparition.  "  Your  case  is  indeed  a  hard  one.  It 
reminds  me  of  those  persons  who  have  had  doubles, 
and  I  suppose  a  man  would  often  be  very  angry  indeed 
when  he  found  that  there  was  another  being  who  was 
personating  himself." 

4 'Oh!  the  cases  are  not  similar  at  all,"  said  the 
ghost.  u  A  double  or  doppelganger  lives  on  the  earth 
with  a  man ;  and,  being  exactly  like  him,  he  makes  all 
sorts  of  trouble,  of  course.  It  is  very  different  with 
me.  I  am  not  here  to  live  with  Mr.  lliuckman.  I  am 
here  to  take  his  place.  Now,  it  would  make  John 
Hinckman  very  angry  if  he  knew  that.  Don't  you 
know  it  would  ?  ' ' 

I  assented  promptly. 

4 'Now  that  he  is  away  I  can  be  easy  fora  little 
while,"  continued  the  ghost;  "and  I  am  so  glad  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  you.  I  have  fre- 
quently come  into  your  room,  and  watched  you  while 
you  slept,  but  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  you  for  fear 
that  if  you  talked  with  me  Mr.  Hinckman  would  hear 
you,  and  come  into  the  room  to  know  why  you  were 
talking  to  yourself." 

"•  But  would  he  not  hear  you?  "  I  asked. 

44  Oh,  no !  "  said  the  other  :  44  there  are  times  when 


THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST.  17 

any  one  may  see  me,  but  no  one  hears  me  except  the 
person  to  whom  I  address  myself." 

"  But  why  did  you  wish  to  speak  to  me?  "  I  asked. 

"Because,"  replied  the  ghost,  "I  like  occasionally 
to  talk  to  people,  and  especially  to  some  one  like  your- 
self, whose  mind  is  so  troubled  and  perturbed  that  you 
are  not  likely  to  be  frightened  by  a  visit  from  one  of 
us.  But  I  particularly  wanted  to  ask  you  to  do  me 
a  favor.  There  is  every  probability,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  that  John  Hinckman  will  live  a  long  time,  and  my 
situation  is  becoming  insupportable.  My  great  object 
at  present  is  to  get  myself  transferred,  and  I  think 
that  you  may,  perhaps,  be  of  use  to  me." 

"  Transferred !  "  I  exclaimed.  u  What  do  you  mean 
by  that?" 

"What  I  mean,"  said  the  other,  "is  this:  Now 
that  I  have  started  on  my  career  I  have  got  to  be  the 
ghost  of  somebody,  arid  I  want  to  be  the  ghost  of  a 
man  who  is  really  dead." 

44 1  should  think  that  would  be  easy  enough,"  I  said. 
"  Opportunities  must  continually  occur." 

"Not  at  all!  not  at  all!"  said  my  companion 
quickly.  "  You  have  no  idea  what  a  rush  and  press- 
ure there  is  for  situations  of  this  kind.  Whenever  a 
vacancy  occurs,  if  I  may  express  myself  in  that  way, 
there  are  crowds  of  applications  for  the  ghostship." 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  such  a  state  of  things  existed," 
I  said,  becoming  quite  interested  in  the  matter, 
"  There  ought  to  be  some  regular  system,  or  order  of 
precedence,  by  which  you  could  all  take  your  turns 
like  customers  in  a  barber's  shop." 


18  THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST. 

"Oh  dear,  that  would  never  do  at  all!  "  said  tlio 
other.  "  Some  of  us  would  have  to  wait  forever. 
There  is  always  a  great  rush  whenever  a  good  ghost- 
ship  offers  itself  —  while,  as  you  know,  there  are  some 
positions  that  no  one  would  care  for.  And  it  was  in 
consequence  of  my  being  in  too  great  a  hurry  on  11:1 
occasion  of  the  kind  that  I  got  myself  into  my  present 
disagreeable  predicament,  and  I  have  thought  that  it 
might  be  possible  that  you  would  help  me  out  of  it. 
You  might  know  of  a  case  where  an  opportunity  for  a 
ghostship  was  not  generally  expected,  but  which  might 
present  itself  at  any  moment.  If  you  would  give  me 
a  short  notice,  I  know  I  could  arrange  for  a  transfer." 

"What  do  3rou  mean?"  I  exclaimed.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  commit  suicide  ?  Or  to  undertake  a  mur- 
der for  your  beneiit?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  "  said  the  other,  with  a  vapory 
smile.  "I  mean  nothing  of  that  kind.  To  be  sure, 
there  are  lovers  who  are  watched  with  considerable 
interest,  such  persons  having  been  known,  in  moments 
of  depression,  to  offer  very  desirable  ghostships ;  but 
I  did  not  think  of  any  thing  of  that  kind  in  connection 
with  you.  You  were  the  only  person  I  cared  to  speak 
to,  and  I  hoped  that  you  might  give  me  some  informa- 
tion that  would  be  of  use  ;  and,  in  return,  1  shall  be 
very  glad  to  help  you  in  your  love  affair." 

' k  You  seem  to  know  that  I  have  such  an  affair, ' '  I 
said. 

"Oh,  yes!"  replied  the  other,  with  a  little  yawn. 
t4 1  could  not  be  here  so  much  as  I  have  been  without 
knowing  all  about  that." 


THE   TRANSFERRED    GHOST.  19 

There  was  something  horrible  in  the  idea  of  Made- 
fine  and  myself  having  been  watched  by  a  ghost,  even, 
perhaps,  when  we  wandered  together  in  the  most  de- 
lightful and  bosky  places.  But,  then,  this  was  quite 
an  exceptional  ghost,  and  I  could  not  have  th3  objec- 
tions to  him  which  would  ordinarily  arise  in  regard  to 
beings  of  his  class. 

UI  must  go  now,"  said  the  ghost,  rising:  u  but  I 
will  see  you  somewhere  to-morrow  night.  And  remem- 
ber—  you  help  me,  and  I'll  help  you." 

I  had  doubts  the  next  morning  as  to  the  propriety 
of  telling  Madeline  any  thing  about  this  interview,  and 
soon  convinced  myself  that  I  must  keep  silent  on  the 
subject.  If  she  knew  there  was  a  ghost  about  the 
house,  she  would  probably  leave  the  place  instantly.  I 
did  not  mention  the  matter,  and  so  regulated  my  de- 
meanor that  I  am  quite  sure  Madeline  never  suspected 
what  had  taken  place.  For  some  time  I  had  wished 
that  Mr.  Hinckman  would  absent  himself,  for  a  day 
at  least,  from  the  premises.  In  such  case  I  thought 
I  might  more  easily  nerve  myself  up  to  the  point  of 
speaking  to  Madeline  on  the  subject  of  our  future  col- 
lateral existence  ;  and,  now  that  the  opportunity  for 
such  speech  had  really  occurred,  I  did  not  feel  ready 
to  avail  myself  of  it.  What  would  become  of  me  if 
she  refused  me  ? 

I  had  an  idea,  however,  that  the  lady  thought  that, 
if  I  were  going  to  speak  at  all,  this  was  the  time.  She 
must  have  known  that  certain  sentiments  were  afloat 
within  me,  and  she  was  not  unreasonable  in  her  wish 
to  see  the  matter  settled  one  way  or  the  other.  But  J 


20  THE   TEANSFEEEED   GHOST. 

did  not  feel  like  taking  a  bold  step  in  the  dark.  If 
she  wished  me  to  ask  her  to  give  herself  to  me,  she 
ought  to  offer  me  some  reason  to  suppose  that  she 
would  make  the  gift.  If  I  saw  no  probability  of  such 
generosity,  I  would  prefer  that  things  should  remain  as 
they  were. 

That  evening  I  was  sitting  with  Madeline  in  the 
moonlit  porch.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  ever 
since  supper-time  I  had  been  working  myself  up  to 
the  point  of  making  an  avowal  of  my  sentiments.  I 
had  not  positively  determined  to  do  this,  but  wished 
gradually  to  reach  the  proper  point,  when,  if  the  pros- 
pect looked  bright,  I  might  speak.  My  companion 
appeared  to  understand  the  situation  —  at  least,  I  im- 
agined that  the  nearer  I  came  to  a  proposal  the  more 
she  seemed  to  expect  it.  It  was  certainly  a  very  criti- 
cal and  important  epoch  in  my  life.  If  I  spoke,  I 
should  make  myself  happ}r  or  miserable  forever ;  and 
if  I  did  not  speak  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that 
the  lady  would  not  give  me  another  chance  to  do  so. 

Sitting  thus  with  Madeline,  talking  a  little,  and 
thinking  very  hard  over  these  momentous  matters,  I 
looked  up  and  saw  the  ghost,  not  a  dozen  feet  away 
from  us.  He  was  sitting  on  the  railing  of  the  porch, 
one  leg  thrown  up  before  him,  the  other  dangling  down 
as  he  leaned  against  a  post.  He  was  behind  Madeline, 
but  almost  in  front  of  me,  as  I  sat  facing  the  lady. 
It  was  fortunate  that  Madeline  was  looking  out  over 
the  landscape,  for  I  must  have  appeared  very  much 
startled.  The  ghost  had  told  me  that  he  would  see  me 


THE  TRANSFERRED   GHOST.  21 

some  lime  this  night,  but  I  did  not  think  he  would 
make  his  appearance  when  I  was  in  the  company  of 
Madeline.  It'  she  should  see  the  spirit  of  her  uncle,  I 
could  not  answer  for  the  consequences.  I  made  no 
exclamation,  but  the  ghost  evidently  saw  that  I  was 
troubled. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said  —  "  I  shall  not  let  her 
see  me ;  and  she  cannot  hear  me  speak  unless  I  ad- 
dress myself  to  her,  which  I  do  not  intend  to  do." 

I  suppose  I  looked  grateful. 

"  So  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  that,"  the 
ghost  continued  ;  u  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  not 
getting  along  very  well  with  your  affair.  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  speak  out  without  waiting  any  longer. 
You  will  never  have  a  better  chance.  You  are  not 
likely  to  be  interrupted ;  and,  so  far  as  I  can  judge, 
the  lady  seems  disposed  to  listen  to  you  favorably ; 
that  is,  if  she  ever  intends  to  do  so.  There  is  no 
knowing  when  John  Hinckman  will  go  away  again  ; 
certainly  not  this  summer.  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I 
should  never  dare  to  make  love  to  Hinckman's  niece  if 
he  were  anywhere  about  the  place.  If  he  should  catch 
any  one  offering  himself  to  Miss  Madeline,  he  would 
then  be  a  terrible  man  to  encounter." 

I  agreed  perfectly  to  all  this. 

"I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  him !  "  I  ejaculated 
aloud. 

"  Think  of  whom?  "  asked  Madeline,  turning  quick- 
ly toward  me. 

Here  was  an  awkward  situation.  The  long  speech 
of  the  ghost,  to  which  Madeline  paid  no  attention,  but 


22  THE  TRANSFERRED   GHOST. 

which  I  heard  with  perfect  distinctness,  had  made  me 
forget  myself. 

It  was  necessary  to  explain  quickly.  Of  course,  it 
would  not  do  to  admit  that  it  was  of  her  dear  uncle 
that  I  was  speaking ;  and  so  I  mentioned  hastily  th? 
first  name  I  thought  of. 

"Mr.  Vilars,"  I  said. 

This  statement  was  entirely  correct ;  for  I  never 
could  bear  to  think  of  Mr.  Vilars,  who  was  a  gentle- 
man who  had,  at  various  times,  paid  much  attention  to 
Madeline. 

"  It  is  wrong  for  you  to  speak  in  that  way  of  Mr. 
Vilars,"  she  said.  "He  is  a  remarkably  well  edu- 
cated and  sensible  young  man,  and  has  very  pleasant 
manners.  He  expects  to  be  elected  to  the  legislature 
this  fall,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  made  his 
mark.  He  will  do  well  in  a  legislative  body,  for  when- 
ever Mr.  Vilars  has  any  thing  to  say  he  knows  just 
how  and  when  to  say  it." 

This  was  spoken  very  quietly,  and  without  any 
show  of  resentment,  which  was  all  very  natural,  for  if 
Madeline  thought  at  all  favorably  of  me  she  could  not 
feel  displeased  that  I  should  have  disagreeable  emo- 
tions in  regard  to  a  possible  rival.  The  concluding 
words  contained  a  hint  which  I  was  not  slow  to  under- 
stand. I  felt  very  sure  that  if  Mr.  Vilars  were  in  my 
present  position  he  would  speak  quickly  enough. 

"  I  know  it  is  wrong  to  have  such  ideas  about  &. 
person,"  I  said.  "  but  I  cannot  help  it." 

The  lady  did  not  chide  me,  and  after  this  she  seemed 
even  in  a  softer  mood.  As  for  me,  I  felt  considerably 


THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST.  23 

annoyed,  for  I  had  not  wished  to  admit  that  any 
thought  of  Mr.  Vilars  had  ever  occupied  my  mind. 

"You  should  not  speak  aloud  that  way,"  said  the 
ghost,  "  or  you  may  get  yourself  into  trouble.  I  want 
to  see  every  thing  go  well  with  you,  because  then  you 
may  be  disposed  to  help  me,  especially  if  I  should 
chance  to  be  of  any  assistance  to  you,  which  I  hope  I 
shall  be." 

I  longed  to  tell  him  that  there  was  no  way  in  which 
he  could  help  me  so  much  as  by  taking  his  instant  de- 
parture. To  make  love  to  a  young  lady  with  a  ghost 
sitting  on  the  railing  near  by,  and  that  ghost  the  appa- 
rition of  a  much-dreaded  uncle,  the  very  idea  of  whom 
in  such  a  position  and  at  such  a  time  made  me  tremble, 
was  a  difficult,  if  not  an  impossible,  thing  to  do ;  but 
I  forbore  to  speak,  although  I  may  have  looked  my 
mind. 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  the  ghost,  "  that  you  have 
not  heard  any  thing  that  might  be  of  advantage  to  me. 
Of  course,  I  am  very  anxious  to  hear  ;  but  if  you  have 
any  thing  to  tell  me,  I  can  wait  until  you  are  alone.  I 
will  come  to  you  to-night  in  your  room,  or  I  will  stay 
here  until  the  lady  goes  away." 

u  You  need  not  wait  here,"  I  said  ;  '*  I  have  nothing 
at  all  to  say  to  you." 

Madeline  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  face  flushed  and 
her  eyes  ablaze. 

"  Wait  here  !  "  she  cried.  "  What  do  you  suppose 
I  am  waiting  for  ?  Nothing  to  say  to  me  indeed  !  —  I 
should  think  so !  What  should  you  have  to  say  to 
me?" 


24  THE  TRANSFERRED   GHOST. 

"Madeline,"  I  exclaimed,  stepping  toward  her, 
"  let  me  explain." 

But  she  had  gone. 

Here  was  the  end  of  the  world  for  me !  I  turned 
fiercely  to  the  ghost. 

"Wretched  existence!"  I  cried.  "You  have 
mined  every  thing.  You  have  blackened  my  whole 
life.  Had  it  not  been  for  you  " 

But  here  my  voice  faltered.     I  could  say  no  more. 

"You  wrong  me,"  said  the  ghost.  "I  have  not 
injured  you.  I  have  tried  only  to  encourage  and 
assist  you,  and  it  is  }*our  own  folly  that  has  done 
this  mischief.  But  do  not  despair.  Such  mistakes 
as  these  can  be  explained.  Keep  up  a  brave  heart. 
Good-by." 

And  he  vanished  from  the  railing  like  a  bursting 
soap-bubble. 

I  went  gloomily  to  bed,  but  I  saw  no  apparitions 
that  night  except  those  of  despair  and  misery  which 
my  wretched  thoughts  called  up.  The  words  I  had 
uttered  had  sounded  to  Madeline  like  the  basest  insult. 
Of  course,  there  was  only  one  interpretation  she  could 
put  upon  them. 

As  to  explaining  my  ejaculations,  that  was  impos- 
sible. I  thought  the  matter  over  and  over  again  as  I 
lay  awake  that  night,  and  I  determined  that  I  would 
never  tell  Madeline  the  facts  of  the  case.  It  would  be 
better  for  me  to  suffer  all  my  life  than  for  her  to  know 
that  the  ghost  of  her  uncle  haunted  the  house.  Mr. 
Hinckman  was  away,  and  if  she  knew  of  his  ghost  she 
could  not  be  made  to  believe  that  he  was  not  dead. 


THE   TRANSFERRED   GUOST.  25 

She  might  not  survive  the  shock !  No,  my  heart 
could  bleed,  but  I  would  never  tell  her. 

The  next  day  was  fine,  neither  too  cool  nor  too 
warm ;  the  breezes  were  gentle,  and  nature  smiled. 
But  there  were  no  walks  or  rides  with  Madeline.  She 
seemed  to  be  much  engaged  during  the  day,  and  I  saw 
but  little  of  her.  When  we  met  at  meals  she  was 
polite,  but  very  quiet  and  reserved.  She  had  evidently 
determined  on  a  course  of  conduct,  and  had  resolved 
to  assume  that,  although  I  had  been  very  rude  to  her, 
she  did  not  understand  the  import  of  my  words.  It 
would  be  quite  proper,  of  course,  for  her  not  to  know 
what  I  meant  by  my  expressions  of  the  night  before. 

I  was  downcast  and  wretched,  and  said  but  little, 
and  the  only  bright  streak  across  the  black  horizon  of 
my  woe  was  the  fact  that  she  did  not  appear  to  be 
happy,  although  she  affected  an  air  of  unconcern.  The 
moonlit  porch  was  deserted  that  evening,  but  wander- 
ing about  the  house  I  found  Madeline  in  the  library 
alone.  She  was  reading,  but  I  went  in  and  sat  down 
near  her.  1  felt  that,  although  I  could  not  do  so  fully, 
1  must  in  a  measure  explain  my  conduct  of  the  night 
before.  She  listened  quietly  to  a  somewhat  labored 
apology  I  made  for  the  words  I  had  used. 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  what  you  meant/' 
she  said,  "  but  you  were  very  rude." 

I  earnestly  disclaimed  any  intention  of  rudeness, 
and  assured  her,  with  a  warmth  of  speech  that  must 
have  made  some  impression  upon  her,  that  rudeness 
to  her  would  be  an  action  impossible  to  me.  I  said  a 
great  deal  upon  the  subject,  and  implored  her  to  be- 


26  THE   TRANSFERRED   GHOST. 

lieve  that  if  it  were  not  for  a  certain  obstacle  I  could 
speak  to  her  so  plainly  that  she  would  understand 
every  thing. 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  she  said,  rather 
mote  kindly,  I  thought,  than  she  had  spoken  before : 

44  Is  that  obstacle  in  any  way  connected  with  my 
uncle?" 

44  Yes,"  I  answered,  after  a  little  hesitation,  44it  is, 
in  a  measure,  connected  with  him." 

She  made  no  answer  to  this,  and  sat  looking  at  her 
book,  but  not  reading.  From  the  expression  of  her 
face,  I  thought  she  was  somewhat  softened  toward  me. 
She  knew  her  uncle  as  well  as  I  did,  and  she  may  have 
been  thinking  that,  if  he  were  the  obstacle  that  pre- 
vented my  speaking  (and  there  were  many  ways  in 
which  he  might  be  that  obstacle) ,  my  position  would 
be  such  a  hard  one  that  it  would  excuse  some  wildness 
of  speech  and  eccentricity  of  manner.  I  saw,  too, 
that  the  warmth  of  my  partial  explanations  had  had 
some  effect  on  her,  and  I  began  to  believe  that  it  might 
be  a  good  thing  for  me  to  speak  my  mind  without 
delay.  No  matter  how  she  should  receive  my  proposi- 
tion, my  relations  with  her  could  not  be  worse  than 
they  had  been  the  previous  night  and  da}T,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  face  which  encouraged  me  to 
hope  that  she  might  forget  my  foolish  exclamations 
of  the  evening  before  if  I  began  to  tell  her  my  tale  of 
love. 

I  drew  my  chair  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  as  I  did 
so  the  ghost  burst  into  the  room  from  the  door-way 
behind  her.  I  say  burst,  although  no  door  flew  open 


THE   TEANSFEEEED   GHOST.  27 

and  he  made  no  noise.  He  was  wildly  excited,  and 
waved  his  arms  above  his  head.  The  moment  I  saw 
him,  my  heart  fell  within  me.  With  the  entrance  of 
that  impertinent  apparition,  every  hope  fled  from  me. 
I  could  not  speak  while  he  was  in  the  room. 

I  must  have  turned  pale ;  and  I  gazed  steadfastly  at 
the  ghost,  almost  without  seeing  Madeline,  who  sat 
between  us. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  cried,  "  that  John  Hinckman 
is  coming  up  the  hill  ?  He  will  be  here  in  fifteen  min- 
utes ;  and  if  you  are  doing  any  thing  in  the  way  of 
love-making,  you  had  better  hurry  it  up.  But  this  is 
not  what  I  came  to  tell  you.  I  have  glorious  news ! 
At  last  I  am  transferred !  Not  forty  minutes  ago  a 
Russian  nobleman  was  murdered  by  the  Nihilists. 
Nobody  ever  thought  of  him  in  connection  with  an 
immediate  ghostship.  My  friends  instantly  applied 
for  the  situation  for  me,  and  obtained  my  transfer. 
I  am  off  before  that  horrid  Hinckman  comes  up  the 
hill.  The  moment  I  reach  my  new  position,  I  shall  put 
off  this  hated  semblance.  Good-by.  You  can't  ima- 
gine how  glad  I  am  to  be,  at  last,  the  real  ghost  of 
somebody." 

"Oh!  "I  cried,  rising  to  my  feet,  and  stretching 
out  my  arms  in  utter  wretchedness,  "I  would  to 
Heaven  you  were  mine  !  ' ' 

"I  am  yours,"  said  Madeline,  raising  to  me  her 
tearful  eyes. 


THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 


TOWARD  the  close  of  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  early 
summer  I  stood  on  the  piazza  of  the  spacious 
country-house  which  was  my  home.  I  had  just  dined, 
and  I  gazed  with  a  peculiar  comfort  and  delight  upon 
the  wide-spreading  lawn  and  the  orchards  and  groves 
beyond ;  and  then,  walking  to  the  other  end  of  the 
piazza,  I  looked  out  toward  the  broad  pastures,  from 
which  a  fine  drove  of  cattle  were  leisurely  coming  home 
to  be  milked,  and  toward  the  fields  of  grain,  whose 
green  was  beginning  already  to  be  touched  with  yellow. 
Involuntarily  (for,  on  principle,  I  was  opposed  to  such 
feelings)  a  pleasant  sense  of  possession  came  over  me. 
It  could  not  be  long  before  all  this  would  virtually  be 
mine. 

About  two  years  before,  I  had  married  the  niece  of 
John  Hinckman,  the  owner  of  this  fine  estate.  He 
was  very  old,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  survive 
much  longer,  and  had  willed  the  property,  without 
icserve,  to  my  wife.  This,  in  brief,  was  the  cause  of 
my  present  sense  of  prospective  possession ;  and  al- 
though, as  I  said,  I  was  principled  against  the  volun- 
28 


THE  SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  29 

tary  encouragement  of  such  a  sentiment,  I  could  not 
blame  myself  if  the  feeling  occasionally  arose  within 
me.  I  had  not  married  my  wife  for  her  uncle's  money. 
Indeed,  we  had  both  expected  that  the  marriage  would 
result  in  her  being  entirely  disinherited.  His  niece 
was  John  Hinckman's  housekeeper  and  sole  prop  and 
comfort,  and  if  she  left  him  for  me  she  expected  no 
kindness  at  his  hands.  But  she  had  not  left  him.  To 
our  surprise,  her  uncle  invited  us  to  live  with  him,  and 
our  relations  with  him  became  more  and  more  amicable 
and  pleasant,  and  Mr.  Hinckman  had,  of  late,  fre- 
quently expressed  to  me  his  great  satisfaction  that 
1  had  proved  to  be  a  man  after  his  own  heart ;  that  I 
took  an  interest  in  flocks  and  herds  and  crops ;  that 
I  showed  a  talent  for  such  pursuits  ;  and  that  I  would 
continue  to  give,  when  he  was  gone,  the  same  care  and 
attention  to  the  place  which  it  had  been  so  long  his 
greatest  pleasure  to  bestow.  He  was  old  and  ill  now, 
and  tired  of  it  all ;  and  the  fact  that  I  had  not  proved 
to  be,  as  he  had  formerly  supposed  me,  a  mere  city 
gentleman,  was  a  great  comfort  to  his  declining  daj's. 
We  were  deeply  grieved  to  think  that  the  old  man  must 
soon  die.  We  would  gladly  have  kept  him  with  us  for 
years ;  but,  if  he  must  go,  it  was  pleasant  to  know 
that  he  and  ourselves  were  so  well  satisfied  with  the 
arrangements  that  had  been  made.  Think  me  not 
cold  and  heartless,  high-minded  reader.  For  a  few 
moments  put  yourself  in  my  place. 

But  had  you,  at  that  time,  put  yourself  in  my  place 
on  that  pleasant  piazza,  I  do  not  believe  you  would 
have  cared  to  stay  there  long ;  for,  as  I  stood  gazing 


30       THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

over  the  fields,  I  felt  a  touch  upon  my  shoulder.  1 
cannot  say  that  I  was  actual!}7  touched,  but  I  experi- 
enced a  feeling  which  indicated  that  the  individual  who 
had  apparently  touched  me  would  have  done  so  had  he 
been  able.  I  instantly  turned,  and  saw,  standing  be- 
side me,  a  tall  figure  in  the  uniform  of  a  Russian  officer. 
I  started  back,  but  made  no  sound.  I  knew  what  the 
figure  was.  It  was  a  spectre  —  a  veritable  ghost. 

Some  years  before  this  place  had  been  haunted.  I 
knew  this  well,  for  I  had  seen  the  ghost  myself.  But 
before  my  marriage  the  spectre  had  disappeared,  and 
had  not  been  seen  since  ;  and  I  must  admit  that  my 
satisfaction,  when  thinking  of  this  estate,  without 
mortgage  or  incumbrance,  was  much  increased  by  the 
thought  that  even  the  ghost,  who  used  to  haunt  the 
house,  had  now  departed. 

But  here  he  was  again.  Although  in  different  form 
and  guise,  I  knew  him.  It  was  the  same  ghost. 

"  Do  you  remember  me?  "  said  the  figure. 

"  Yes,'*  I  answered  :  "  I  remember  you  in  the  form 
in  which  you  appeared  to  me  some  time  ago.  Although 
your  aspect  is  entirely  changed,  I  feel  you  to  be  the 
same  ghost  that  I  have  met  before." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  spectre.  "  I  am  glad  to 
see  you  looking  so  well,  and  apparently  happy.  But 
John  Hinckman,  I  understand,  is  in  a  very  low  state 
of  health." 

"Yes,"  I  said:  "he  is  very  old  and  ill.  But  I 
hope,"  I  continued,  as  a  cloud  of  anxiety  began  to 
rise  within  me,  "  that  his  expected  decease  has  no  con- 
nection with  any  prospects  or  plans  of  your  own." 


THE   SPECTEAL   MORTGAGE.  81 

"No,"  said  the  ghost.  "  I  am  perfectly  satisfied 
with  my  present  position.  I  am  off  duty  during  the 
day ;  and  the  difference  in  time  between  this  country 
and  Russia  gives  me  opportunities  of  being  here  in 
your  early  evening,  and  of  visiting  scenes  and  localities 
which  are  very  familiar  and  agreeable  to  me." 

"  Which  fact,  perhaps,  you  had  counted  upon  when 
you  first  put  this  uniform  on,"  I  remarked. 

The  ghost  smiled. 

'•I  must  admit,  however,"  he  said,  "that  I  am 
seeking  this  position  for  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  he  will  obtain  it." 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "Is  it  possible 
that  this  house  is  to  be  haunted  by  a  ghost  as  soon  as 
the  old  gentleman  expires?  Why  should  this  family 
be  tormented  in  such  a  horrible  way  ?  Everybody  who 
dies  does  not  have  a  ghost  walking  about  his  house." 

" Oh,  no  !  "  said  the  spectre.  "There  are  thousands 
of  positions  of  the  kind  which  are  never  applied  for  ; 
but  the  ghostship  here  is  a  very  desirable  one,  and 
there  are  many  applicants  for  it.  I  think  you  will  like 
my  friend,  if  he  gets  it." 

"  Like  him  !  "  I  groaned. 

The  idea  was  horrible  to  me. 

The  ghost  evidently  perceived  how  deeply  I  was 
affected  by  what  he  had  said,  for  there  was  a  compas- 
sionate expression  on  his  countenance.  As  I  looked 
at  him  an  idea  struck  me.  If  I  were  to  have  any 
ghost  at  all  about  the  house,  I  would  prefer  this  one. 
Could  there  be  such  things  as  duplex  ghostships? 
Since  it  was  day  here  when  it  was  night  in  Russia, 


32  TEF,    SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE. 


why  could  not  this  spectre  serve  in  both  places?  It 
was  common  enough  for  a  person  to  fill  two  situations. 
The  notion  seemed  feasible  to  me,  and  I  broached  it. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  ghost.  "But  the  matter 
cannot  be  arranged  in  that  waj.  Night  and  day  are 
not  suitably  divided  between  here  and  Russia ;  and, 
besides,  it  is  necessary  for  the  incumbent  of  this  place 
to  be  on  duty  at  all  hours.  You  remember  that  I  came 
to  you  b}T  day  as  well -as  at  night?  " 

Oh,  yes !  I  remembered  that.  It  was  additionally 
unfortunate  that  the  ghostship  here  should  not  be  one 
of  the  limited  kind. 

"Why  is  it,"  I  asked,  "that  a  man's  own  spirit 
does  not  attend  to  these  matters?  I  always  thought 
that  was  the  way  the  thing  was  managed." 

The  ghost  shook  his  head. 

"Consider  for  a  moment,"  here  plied,  "what  chance 
a  man's  own  spirit,  without  experience  and  without 
influence,  would  have  in  a  crowd  of  importunate  appli- 
cants, versed  in  all  the  arts,  and  backed  by  the  influ- 
ence necessary  in  such  a  contest.  Of  course  there  are 
cases  in  which  a  person  becomes  his  own  ghost ;  but 
this  is  because  the  position  is  undesirable,  and  there  is 
no  competition." 

"  And  this  new-comer,"  I  exclaimed,  in  much 
trouble,  "will  he  take  the  form  of  Mr.  Hinckman? 
If  my  wife  should  see  such  an  apparition  it  would  kill 
her." 

"The  ghost  who  will  haunt  this  place,"  said  my 
•  ompanion,  "will  not  appear  in  the  form  of  John 
ilinckman.  I  am  glad  that  is  so,  if  it  will  please  you  ; 


TUE  SPECTEAL  MORTGAGE.        33 

for  you  are  the  only  man  with  whom  I  have  ever  held 
such  unrestrained  and  pleasant  intercourse.  Good- by." 

And  with  these  words  no  figure  of  a  Russian  officer 
stood  before  me. 

For  some  minutes  I  remained  motionless,  with  down- 
cast eyes,  a  very  different  man  from  the  one  who  had 
just  gazed  out  with  such  delight  over  the  beautiful 
landscape.  A  shadow,  not  that  of  night,  had  fallen 
over  every  thing.  This  fine  estate  was  not  to  come  to 
us  clear  and  unencumbered,  as  we  thought.  It  was 
to  be  saddled  with  a  horrible  lien,  a  spectral  mortgage. 

Madeline  had  gone  up  stairs  writh  Pegram.  Pegram 
was  our  baby.  I  disliked  his  appellation  with  all  my 
heart ;  but  Pegram  was  a  family  name  on  Madeline's 
side  of  the  house,  and  she  insisted  that  our  babe 
should  bear  it.  Madeline  was  very  much  wrapped  up 
in  Pegram,  often  I  thought  too  much  so ;  for  there 
were  many  times  when  I  should  have  been  very  glad 
of  my  wife's  society,  but  was  obliged  to  do  without  it 
because  she  was  entirely  occupied  with  Pegram.  To 
be  sure,  my  wife's  sister  was  with  us,  and  there  was 
a  child's  nurse  ;  but,  for  all  that,  Madeline  was  so 
completely  Pegramized,  that  a  great  many  of  the  hours 
which  I,  in  my  anticipations  of  matrimonial  felicity, 
had  imagined  would  be  passed  in  the  company  of  my 
wife,  were  spent  alone,  or  with  the  old  gentleman,  or 
Belle. 

Belle  was  a  fine  girl ;  to  me  not  so  charming  and 
attractive  as  her  sister,  but  perhaps  equally  so  to  some 
other  persons,  certainly  to  one.  This  was  Will  Cren- 
sliaw,  an  old  school-fellow  of  mine,  then  a  civil  engi- 


34       THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

neer,  in  South  America.  Will  was  the  declared  suitor 
of  Belle,  although  she  had  never  formally  accepted 
him ;  but  Madeline  and  myself  both  strongly  favored 
the  match,  and  felt  very  anxious  that  she  should  do 
so,  and  indeed  were  quite  certain  that  when  Will 
should  return  every  thing  would  be  made  all  right. 
The  young  engineer  was  a  capital  fellow,  had  excellent 
prospects,  and  was  my  best  friend.  It  was  our  plan 
that  after  their  marriage  the  youthful  couple  should 
live  with  us.  This,  of  course,  would  be  delightful  to 
both  Belle  and  her  sister,  and  I  could  desire  no  better 
companion  than  Will.  He  was  not  to  go  to  distant 
countries  any  more,  and  who  could  imagine  a  pleas- 
unter  home  than  ours  would  be. 

And  now  here  was  this  dreadful  prospect  of  a 
household  ghost ! 

A  week  or  so  passed  by,  and  John  Hinckman  was 
no  more.  Every  thing  was  done  for  him  that  respect 
and  affection  could  dictate,  and  no  one  mourned  his 
death  more  heartily  than  I.  If  I  could  have  had  my 
way  he  would  have  lived  as  long  as  I,  myself,  remained 
upon  this  earth. 

When  eveiy  thing  about  the  house  had  settled  down 
into  its  accustomed  quiet,  I  began  to  look  out  for  the 
coming  of  the  expected  ghost.  I  felt  sure  that  I 
would  be  the  one  to  whom  he  would  make  his  appear- 
ance, and  with  my  regret  and  annoyance  at  his  ex- 
pected coming  was  mingled  a  feeling  of  curiosity  to 
know  in  what  form  he  would  appear.  He  was  not  to 
come  as  John  Hinckman  —  that  was  the  only  bit  of 
oomfort  in  the  whole  affair. 


THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE.  85 

But  several  weeks  passed,  and  I  saw  no  ghost ;  and 
I  began  to  think  that  perhaps  the  aversion  I  had  shown 
to  having  such  an  inmate  of  my  household  had  had  its 
effect,  and  I  was  to  be  spared  the  infliction.  And  now 
another  subject  occupied  my  thoughts.  It  was  sum- 
mer, the  afternoons  were  pleasant,  and  on  one  of  them 
I  asked  Belle  to  take  a  walk  with  me.  I  would  have 
preferred  Madeline,  but  she  had  excused  herself  as  she 
was  very  busy  making  what  I  presumed  to  be  an  altar 
cloth  for  Pegram.  It  turned  out  to  be  an  afghan  for 
his  baby  carnage,  but  the  effect  was  the  same :  sha 
could  not  go.  When  I  could  not  have  Madeline  I 
liked  very  well  to  walk  with  Belle.  She  was  a  pleas- 
ant  girl,  and  in  these  walks  I  always  talked  to  her  of 
Crenshaw.  My  desire  that  she  should  marry  my 
friend  grew  stronger  daily.  But  this  afternoon  Belle 
hesitated,  and  looked  a  little  confused. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  walk  to-day.*' 

"  But  you  have  your  hat  on,"  I  urged  :  "  I  supposed 
you  had  made  ready  for  a  walk." 

"  No,"  said  she  :  "  I  thought  I  would  go  somewhere 
with  my  book." 

'•You  haven't  a  book,"  I  said,  looking  at  her  hands, 
cue  of  which  held  a  parasol. 

4 'You  are  dreadfully  exact,"  she  replied,  with  a 
little  laugh :  "  I  am  going  into  the  library  to  get  one." 
And  away  she  ran. 

There  was  something  about  this  I  did  not  like.  I 
firmly  believed  she  had  come  down  stairs  prepared  to 
take  a  walk.  But  she  did  not  want  me  ;  that  was  evi- 
dent enough.  I  went  off  for  a  long  walk,  and  when 


36       THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

I  returned  supper  was  ready,  but  Belle  had  not  ap- 
peared. 

"  She  has  gone  off  somewhere  with  a  book,"  I  said. 
"  I'll  go  and  look  for  her." 

I  walked  down  to  the  bosky  grove  at  the  foot  of  the 
lawn,  and  passed  through  it  without  seeing  any  signs 
of  Belle.  Soon,  however,  I  caught  sight  of  her  light 
dress  in  an  open  space  a  little  distance  beyond  me. 
Stepping  forward  a  few  paces  I  had  a  full  view  of  her, 
and  my  astonishment  can  be  imagined  when  I  saw  that 
she  was  standing  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  talking  to  a 
young  man.  His  back  was  turned  toward  me,  but  I 
could  see  from  his  figure  and  general  air  that  he  was 
young.  His  hat  was  a  little  on  one  side,  in  his  hand 
he  carried  a  short  whip,  and  he  wore  a  pair  of  riding- 
boots.  He  and  Belle  were  engaged  in  very  earnest 
conversation,  and  did  not  perceive  me.  I  was  not 
only  surprised  but  shocked  at  the  sight.  I  was  quite 
certain  Belle  had  come  here  to  meet  this  young  man, 
who,  to  me,  was  a  total  stranger.  I  did  not  wish  Belle 
to  know  that  I  had  seen  her  with  him  ;  and  so  I  stepped 
back  out  of  their  sight,  and  began  to  call  her.  It  was 
not  long  before  I  saw  her  coming  toward  me,  and,  as 
I  expected,  alone. 

"  Indeed,"  she  cried,  looking  at  her  watch,  "  I  did 
not  know  it  was  so  late." 

"  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  time  with  your  book ?" 
I  asked,  as  we  walked  homeward. 

44 1  wasn't  reading  all  the  time,"  she  answered. 

I  asked  her  no  more  questions.  It  was  not  for  me 
to  begin  an  inquisition  into  this  matter.  But  that 


THE  SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  37 

night  I  told  Madeline  all  about  it.  The  news  troubled 
her  much,  and  like  myself  she  was  greatly  grieved  tit 
Belle's  evident  desire  to  deceive  us.  When  there  was 
a  necessity  for  it  my  wife  could  completely  de-Pegram- 
ize  herself,  and  enter  with  quick  and  judicious  action 
into  the  affairs  of  others. 

"  I  will  go  with  her  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "If  this 
person  comes,  I  do  not  intend  that  she  shall  meet  him 
alone." 

The  next  afternoon  Belle  started  out  again  with  her 
book ;  but  she  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  she  was 
joined  b}7  Madeline,  with  hat  and  parasol,  and  together 
they  walked  into  the  bosky  grove.  They  returned  in 
very  good  time  for  supper ;  and  as  we  went  in  to  that 
meal,  Madeline  whispered  to  ine  : 

"  There  was  nobody  there." 

"  And  did  she  say  nothing  to  you  of  the  young  man 
with  whom  she  was  talking  yesterday?"  I  asked, 
when  we  were  alone  some  hours  later. 

"  Not  a  word,"  she  said,  "  though  I  gave  her  every 
opportunity.  I  wonder  if  you  could  have  been  mis- 
taken." 

"  I  am  sure  I  was  not,"  I  replied.  u  I  saw  the  man 
as  plainly  as  I  see  you." 

"Then  Belle  is  treating  us  very  badly,"  she  said. 
' '  If  she  desires  the  company  of  young  men  let  her  say 
so,  and  we  will  invite  them  to  the  house." 

I  did  not  altogether  agree  with  this  latter  remark.  I 
did  not  care  to  have  Belle  know  young  men.  I  wanted 
her  to  marry  Will  Creushaw,  and  be  done  with  it. 
But  we  both  agreed  not  to  speak  to  the  young  lady  on 


38        THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

the  subject.  It  was  not  for  us  to  pry  into  her  secrets, 
and  if  any  thing  was  to  be  said  she  should  sa}T  it. 

Every  afternoon  Belle  went  away,  as  before,  with 
her  book  ;  but  we  did  not  accompany  her,  nor  allude  to 
her  newly  acquired  love  for  solitary  walks  and  studies. 
One  afternoon  we  had  callers,  and  she  could  not  go. 
That  night,  after  I  had  gone  to  sleep,  Madeline  awoke 
me  with  a  little  shake. 

"  Listen,"  she  whispered.  "  Whom  is  Belle  talking 
to?" 

The  night  was  warm,  and  ah1  our  doors  and  windows 
were  open.  Belle's  chamber  was  not  far  from  ours  ; 
and  we  could  distinctly  hear  her  speaking  in  a  low 
tone.  She  was  evidently  holding  a  conversation  with 
some  one  whose  voice  we  could  not  hear. 

"  I'll  go  in,"  said  Madeline,  rising,  "  and  see  about 
this." 

"No,  no,"  I  whispered.  "She  is  talking  to  some 
one  outside.  Let  me  go  down  and  speak  to  him." 

I  slipped  on  some  clothes  and  stole  quietly  down  the 
stairs.  I  unfastened  the  back  door  and  went  round  to 
the  side  on  which  Belle's  window  opened.  No  sooner 
had  I  reached  the  corner  than  I  saw,  directly  under 
the  window,  and  looking  upward,  his  hat  cocked  a 
good  deal  on  one  side,  and  his  riding- whip  in  his  hand, 
the  jaunty  young  fellow  with  whom  I  had  seen  Belle 
talking. 

"  Hello  !  "  I  cried,  and  rushed  toward  him.  At  the 
sound  of  my  voice  he  turned  to  me,  and  I  saw  his  face 
distinctly.  He  was  young  and  handsome.  There  was 
a  sort  of  half  laugh  on  his  countenance,  as  if  he  had 


THE  SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  39 

just  been  saying  something  very  witty.  But  he  did 
not  wait  to  finish  his  remark  or  to  speak  to  me.  There 
was^a  large  evergreen  near  him ;  and,  stepping  quickly 
behind  it,  he  was  lost  to  my  view.  I  ran  around  the 
bush,  but  could  see  nothing  of  him.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  shrubbery  hereabouts,  and  he  was  easily  able 
to  get  away  unobserved.  I  continued  the  search  for 
about  ten  minutes,  and  then,  quite  sure  that  the  fellow 
had  got  away,  I  returned  to  the  house.  Madeline  had 
lighted  a  lamp,  and  was  calling  down-stairs  to  ask  if 
I  had  found  the  man ;  some  of  the  servants  were  up, 
and  anxious  to  know  what  had  happened  ;  Pegram  was 
crying ;  but  in  Belle's  room  all  was  quiet.  Madeline 
looked  in  at  the  open  door,  and  saw  her  lying  quietly 
in  her  bed.  No  word  was  spoken ;  and  my  wife 
returned  to  our  room,  where  we  discussed  the  affair 
for  a  long  time. 

In  the  morning  I  determined  to  give  Belle  a  chance 
to  speak,  and  at  the  breakfast-table  I  said  to  her : 

"  I  suppose  you  heard  the  disturbance  last  night?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly.  "Did  you  catch  the 
man?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  with  considerable  irritation, 
"but  I  wish  I  had." 

"  What  would  you  have  done  if  you  had  caught 
him?  "  she  asked,  as  with  unusual  slowness  and  delib- 
eration she  poured  some  cream  upon  her  oat-meal. 

"  Done  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  I  don't  know  what  I  would 
have  done.  But  one  thing  is  certain,  I  would  'have 
made  him  understand  that  I  would  have  no  strangers 
prowling  around  my  house  at  night." 


40        THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

Belle  colored  a  little  at  the  last  part  of  this  remark ; 
but  she  made  no  answer,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

This  conversation  greatly  pained  both  Madeline  and 
myself.  It  made  it  quite  clear  to  us  that  Belle  was 
aware  that  we  knew  of  her  acquaintance  with  this 
young  man,  and  that  she  still  determined  to  say  noth- 
ing to  us,  either  in  the  way  of  confidence  or  excuse. 
She  had  treated  us  badly,  and  we  could  not  help  show- 
ing it.  On  her  side  Belle  was  very  quiet,  and  entirely 
din°event  from  the  gay  girl  she  had  been  some  time 
before. 

I  urged  Madeline  to  go  to  Belle  and  speak  to  her  as 
a  sister,  but  she  declined.  "  No,"  she  said  :  "  I  know 
Belle's  spirit,  and  there  would  be  trouble.  If  there  is 
to  be  a  quarrel  I  shall  not  begin  it." 

I  was  determined  to  end  this  unpleasant  feeling, 
which,  to  me,  was  almost  as  bad  as  a  quarrel.  If  the 
thing  were  possible  I  would  put  an  end  to  the  young 
man's  visits.  I  could  never  have  the  same  opinion  of 
Belle  I  had  had  before ;  but  if  this  impudent  fellow 
could  be  kept  away,  and  Will  Crenshaw  should  come 
back  and  attend  to  his  business  as  an  earnest  suitor 
ought,  all  might  yet  be  well. 

And  now,  strange  to  say,  I  began  to  long  for  the 
giiost,  whose  coming  had  been  promised.  I  had  been 
considering  what  means  I  should  take  to  keep  Belle's 
clandestine  visitor  away,  and  had  found  the  question 
rather  a  difficult  one  to  settle.  I  could  not  shoot  the 
man,  and  it  would  indeed  be  difficult  to  prevent  tho 
meeting  of  two  young  persons  over  whom  I  had  no 
actual  control.  But  I  happened  to  think  that  if  I  could 


THE  SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  41 

get  the  aid  of  the  expected  ghost  the  matter  would  bo 
easy.  If  it  should  be  as  accommodating  and  obliging 
as  the  one  who  had  haunted  the  house  before,  it  would 
readily  agree  to  forward  the  fortunes  of  the  family  by 
assisting  in  breaking  up  this  unfortunate  connection. 
If  it  would  consent  to  be  present  at  their  interviews 
the  affair  was  settled.  I  knew  from  personal  experi- 
ence that  love-making  in  the  presence  of  a  ghost  was 
extremely  unpleasant,  and  in  this  case  I  believed  it 
would  be  impossible. 

Every  night,  after  the  rest  of  the  household  had 
gone  to  bed,  I  wandered  about  the  grounds,  examining 
the  porches  and  the  balconies,  looking  up  to  the  chim- 
neys and  the  ornaments  on  top  of  the  house,  hoping 
to  see  that  phantom,  whose  coming  I  had,  a  short  time 
before,  anticipated  with  such  dissatisfaction  and  re- 
pugnance. If  I  could  even  again  meet  the  one  who 
was  now  serving  in  Russia,  I  thought  it  would  answer 
my  purpose  as  well. 

Oil  the  third  or  fourth  night  after  I  had  begun  my 
nocturnal  rounds,  I  encountered,  on  a  path  not  very 
far  from  the  house,  the  young  fellow  who  had  given  us 
so  much  trouble.  My  indignation  at  his  impudent  re- 
appearance knew  no  bounds.  The  moon  was  somewhat, 
obscured  by  fleecy  clouds  ;  but  I  could  see  that  he  wore 
the  same  jaunty  air,  his  hat  was  cocked  a  little  more 
on  one  side,  he  stood  with  his  feet  quite  wide  apart, 
and  in  his  hands,  clasped  behind  him,  he  held  his 
riding-whip.  I  stepped  quickly  toward  him. 

"Well,  sir!"  I  exclaimed. 

He  did  not  seem  at  all  startled. 


42       THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

"  How  d'ye  do?  "  he  said,  with  a  little  nod. 

"  How  dare  you,  sir,"  I  cried,  "  intrude  yourself  on 
my  premises?  This  is  the  second  time  I  have  found 
you  here,  and  now  I  want  you  to  understand  that  you 
are  to  get  away  from  here  just  as  fast  as  you  can  ; 
and  if  you  are  ever  caught  again  anywhere  on  this 
estate,  I'll  have  you  treated  as  a  trespasser." 

"Indeed,"  said  he,  "I  would  be  sorry  to  put  you 
to  so  much  trouble.  And  now  let  me  say  that  I  have 
tried  to  keep  out  of  your  way,  but  since  you  have 
proved  so  determined  to  make  my  acquaintance  I 
thought  I  might  come  forward  and  do  the  sociable." 

44  None  of  your  impertinence,"  I  cried.  "What 
brings  you  here,  anyway?  " 

"  Well,"  said  he,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  if  you  want  to 
know,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  came  to  see  Miss  Belle." 

"You  confounded  rascal!"  I  cried,  raising  my 
heavy  stick.  "  Get  out  of  my  sight,  or  I  will  break 
your  head  !  ' ' 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  "  break  away  !  " 

And  drawing  himself  up,  he  gave  his  right  boot  a 
slap  with  his  whip. 

The  whip  went  entirely  through  both  legs  !  It  was 
the  ghost ! 

Utterly  astounded  I  started  back,  and  sat  clown  upon 
a  raised  flower-bed,  against  which  I  had  stumbled.  I 
had  no  strength,  nor  power  to  speak.  I  had  seen  a 
ghost  before,  but  I  was  entirely  overcome  by  this 
amazing  development. 

"And  now  I  suppose  you  know  who  I  am,"  said  the 
spectre,  approaching,  and  standing  in  front  of  me. 


THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE.        43 

"  The  one  who  was  here  before  told  me  that  your  lady 
didn't  fancy  ghosts,  and  that  I  had  better  keep  out  of 
sight  of  both  of  you  ;  but  he  didn't  say  any  thing  about 
Miss  Belle  :  and  by  George  !  sir,  it  wouldn't  have  mat- 
tered if  he  had  ;  for  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  charming 
young  lady  I  shouldn't  have  been  here  at  all.  I  am 
the  ghost  of  Buck  Edwards,  who  was  pretty  well  known 
in  the  lower  part  of  this  county  about  seventy  years 
ago.  I  always  had  a  great  eye  for  the  ladies,  sir,  and 
when  I  got  a  chance  to  court  one  I  didn't  miss  it.  I 
did  too  much  courting,  "however ;  for  I  roused  up  a 
jealous  fellow,  named  Ruggles,  and  he  shot  me  in  a 
duel  early  one  September  morning.  Since  then  I  have 
haunted,  from  time  to  time,  more  than  a  dozen  houses 
where  there  were  pretty  girls." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  asked,  now  finding 
strength,  ''that  a  spirit  would  care  to  come  back  to 
this  earth  to  court  a  girl  ?  ' ' 

44  Why,  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  exclaimed  the 
phantom  of  Buck  Edwards.  "Do  you  suppose  that 
only  old  misers  and  lovelorn  maidens  want  to  come 
back  and  have  a  good  time  ?  No,  sir !  Every  one  of 
us,  who  is  worth  any  thing,  comes  if  he  can  get  a 
chance.  B}'  George,  sir  !  do  you  know  I  courted  Miss 
Belle's  grandmother?  And  a  couple  of  gay  young 
ones  we  were  too !  Nobody  ever  knew  any  thing  of 
it,  and  that  made  it  all  the  livelier." 

' '  Do  you  intend  to  stay  here  and  pay  attention  to 
my  sister-in-law?  "  I  asked,  anxiously. 

"Certainly  I  do,"  was  tke  reply.  "Didn't  I  say 
that  is  what  I  came  for?  " 


44  THE    SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE. 

u  Don't  you  see  the  mischief  you  will  do?"  I 
asked.  "You  will  probably  break  off  a  match  be- 
tween her  and  a  most  excellent  gentleman  whom  we 
all  desire  " 

u  Break  off  a  match  !  "  exclaimed  the  ghost  of  Buck 
Edwards,  with  a  satisfied  grin.  "  How  many  matches 
I  have  broken  off !  The  last  thing  I  ever  did,  before  I 
went  away,  was  of  that  sort.  She  wouldn't  marry  the 
gentleman  who  shot  me."  There  was  evidently  no 
conscience  to  this  spectre. 

"And  if  you  do  not  care  for  that,"  I  said,  in  con- 
siderable anger,  "  I  can  tell  you  that  you  are  causing 
ill-feeling  between  the  young  lady  and  the  best  friends 
she  has  in  the  world,  which  may  end  very  disas- 
trously." 

"Now,  look  here,  my  man,"  said  the  ghost;  "if 
you  and  your  wife  are  really  her  friends  you  wont  act 
like  fools  and  make  trouble." 

I  made  no  answer  to  this  remark,  but  asserted,  with 
much  warmth,  that  I  intended  to  tell  Miss  Belle  exactly 
what  he  was,  and  so  break  off  the  engagement  at  once. 

"  If  you  tell  her  that  she's  "been  walking  and  talking 
with  the  ghost  of  the  fellow  who  courted  her  grand- 
mother, —  I  reckon  she  could  find  some  of  my  letters 
now  among  the  old  lady's  papers  if  she  looked  for 
them,  —  you'd  frighten  the  wits  out  of  her.  She'd  go 
crazy.  I  know  girls'  natures,  sir." 

"So  do  I,"  I  groaned. 

"  Don't  get  excited,"  he  said.  "  Let  the  girl  alone, 
and  every  thing  will  be  comfortable  and  pleasant. 
Good-night." 


THE   SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  45 

I  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Here  was  a  terrible 
situation.  A  sister-in-law  courted  by  a  ghost !  Was 
ever  a  man  called  upon  to  sustain  such  a  trial !  And  I 
must  sustain  it  alone.  There  was  no  one  with  whom 
I  could  share  the  secret. 

Several  times  after  this  I  saw  this  baleful  spectre  of 
a  young  buck  of  the  olden  time.  He  would  nod  to  me 
with  a  jocular  air,  but  I  did  not  care  to  speak  to  him. 
One  afternoon  I  went  into  the  house  to  look  for  my 
wife  ;  and,  very  naturally,  I  entered  the  room  where 
Pcgram  lay  in  his  little  bed.  The  child  was  asleep, 
and  no  one  was  with  him.  I  stood  and  gazed  contem- 
platively upon  my  son.  He  was  a  handsome  child, 
and  apparently  full  of  noble  instincts  ;  and  yet  I  could 
not  help  wishing  that  he  were  older,  or  that  in  some 
way  his  conditions  were  such  that  it  should  not  be 
necessary,  figuratively  speaking,  that  his  mother  should 
continually  hover  about  him.  If  she  could  be  content 
with  a  little  less  of  Pegram  and  a  little  more  of  me, 
my  anticipations  of  a  matrimonial  career  would  be 
more  fully  realized. 

As  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  my  mind  I 
raised  my  eyes,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  bed- 
stead I  saw  the  wretched  ghost  of  Buck  Edwards. 

44  Fine  boy,"  he  said. 

My  indignation  at  seeing  this  impudent  existence 
within  the  most  sacred  precincts  of  my  house  was 
boundless. 

"  You  vile  interloper  !  "  I  cried. 

At  this  moment  Madeline  entered  the  room.  Palo 
and  stern,  she  walked  directly  to  the  crib  and  took  up 
the  child.  Then  she  turned  to  me  and  said : 


46  THE  SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE. 

44 1  was  standing  in  the  door-way,  and  saw  you  look- 
ing at  my  babe.  I  heard  what  you  said  to  him.  I 
have  suspected  it  before."  And  then,  with  Pegram  in 
her  arms,  she  strode  out  of  the  room. 

The  ghost  had  vanished  as  Madeline  entered.  Filled 
with  rage  and  bitterness,  for  my  wife  had  never  spoken 
to  me  in  these  tones  before,  I  ran  down-stairs  and 
rushed  out  of  the  house.  I  walked  long  and  far,  my 
mhid  filled  with  doleful  thoughts.  When  I  returned  to 
the  house,  I  found  a  note  from  my  wife.  It  ran  thus  : 

"I  have  gone  to  aunt  Hannah's  with  Pegram,  and  have 
taken  Belle.  I  cannot  live  with  one  who  considers  my  child 
H  vile  interloper." 

As  I  sat  down  in  my  misery,  there  was  one  little 
spark  of  comfort  amid  the  gloom.  She  had  taken 
Belle.  My  first  impulse  was  to  follow  into  the  city 
and  explain  every  thing ;  but  I  quickly  reflected  that 
if  I  did  this  I  must  tell  her  of  the  ghost,  and  I  felt 
certain  that  she  would  never  return  with  Pegram  to  a 
haunted  house.  Must  I,  in  order  to  regain  my  wife, 
give  up  this  beautiful  home?  For  two  days  I  racked 
my  brains  and  wandered  gloomily  about. 

In  one  of  my  dreary  rambles  I  encountered  the 
ghost.  "  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  I  cried.  "•  Miss 
Belle  has  gone." 

"I  know  that,"  the  spectre  answered,  his  air  ex- 
pressing all  his  usual  impertinence  and  swagger,  "  but 
she'll  come  back.  When  your  wife  returns,  she's 
bound  to  bring  young  Miss." 

At  this,  a  thought  flashed  through  my  mind.     If  any 


THE   SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  47 

good  would  come  of  it,  Belle  should  never  return, 
Whatever  else  happened,  this  insolent  ghost  of  a  gay 
young  buck  should  have  no  excuse  for  haunting  my 
house. 

"She  will  never  come  back  while  you  are  here," 
I  cried. 

"  1  don't  believe  it,"  it  coolly  answered. 

I  made  no  further  assertions  on  the  subject.  I  had 
determined  what  to  do,  and  it  was  of  no  use  to  be 
angry  with  a  vaporing  creature  like  this.  But  I  might 
as  well  get  some  information  out  of  him. 

"  Tell  me  this,"  I  asked  ;  "if,  for  any  reason,  you 
should  leave  this  place  and  throw  up  your  situation,  so 
to  speak,  would  you  have  a  successor?  " 

"  You  needn't  think  I  am  going,"  it  said  contempt- 
uously. "  None  of  your  little  tricks  on  me.  But  I'll 
just  tell  you,  for  your  satisfaction,  that  if  I  should  take 
it  into  my  head  to  cut  the  place,  there  would  be 
another  ghost  here  in  no  time." 

u  What  is  it,"  I  cried,  stamping  my  foot,  "  that 
causes  this  house  to  be  so  haunted  by  ghosts,  when 
there  are  hundreds  and  thousands  of  places  where  such 
apparitions  are  never  seen?  " 

"Old  fellow,"  said  the  spectre,  folding  its  arms, 
and  looking  at  me  with  half-shut  eyes,  u  it  isn't  the 
house  that  draws  the  ghosts,  it  is  somebody  in  it ;  and 
as  long  as  you  are  here  the  place  will  be  haunted.  But 
you  needn't  mind  that.  Some  houses  have  rats,  some 
have  fever- and- ague,  and  some  have  ghosts.  Au 
revoir."  And  I  was  alone. 

So  then  the  spectral  mortgage  could  never  be  lifted. 


48       THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

With  heavy  heart  and  feet  I  passed  through  the  bosky 
grove  to  my  once  happy  home. 

I  had  not  been  there  half  an  hour  when  Belle  ar- 
rived. She  had  come  by  the  morning  train,  and  had 
nothing  with  her  but  a  little  hand-bag.  I  looked  at 
her  in  astonishment. 

"  Infatuated  girl,"  I  cried,  "could  you  not  stay 
away  from  here  three  days?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  said  that,"  she  answered,  taking  a 
seat ;  "  for  now  I  think  I  am  right  in  suspecting  what 
was  on  your  mind.  I  ran  away  from  Madeline  to 
see  if  I  could  find  out  what  was  at  the  bottom  of  this 
dreadful  trouble  between  you.  She  told  me  what  you 
said,  and  I  don't  believe  you  ever  used  those  words  to 
Pegram.  And  now  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question. 
Had  I,  in  any  way,  any  thing  to  do  with  this?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  not  directly."  And  then  embold- 
ened by  circumstances,  I  added:  "But  that  secret 
visitor  or  friend  of  yours  had  much  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  thought  that  might  be  so,"  she  answered  ;  "  and 
now,  George,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  I  am  afraid 
it  will  shock  you  very  much." 

"  I  have  had  so  much  to  shock  me  lately  that  I  can 
stand  almost  any  thing  now." 

"Well  then,  it  is  this,"  she  said.  "That  person 
whom  I  saw  sometimes,  and  whom  you  once  found 
under  my  window,  is  a  ghost." 

"  Did  you  know  that?  "  I  cried.  "  I  knew  it  was  a 
ghost,  but  did  iiot  imagine  that  you  had  any  suspicion 
of  it." 

"Why,  yes,"  she  answered,  "I  saw  through  him 


THE   SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  49 

almost  from  the  very  first.  T  was  a  good  deal  startled, 
and  a  little  frightened  when  I  found  it  out ;  but  I  soon 
felt  that  this  ghost  couldn't  do  me  an}^  harm,  and  you 
don't  know  how  amusing  it  was.  I  always  had  a 
fancy  for  ghosts,  but  I  never  expected  to  meet  with 
one  like  this." 

"  And  so  you  knew  all  the  time  it  wasn't  a  real 
man,"  I  exclaimed,  still  filled  with  astonishment  at 
what  I  had  heard. 

"  A  real  man  !  "  cried  Belle,  with  considerable  con- 
tempt in  her  tones.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  would  become 
acquainted  in  that  way  with  a  real  man,  and  let  him 
come  under  my  window  and  talk  to  me  ?  I  was  deter- 
mined not  to  tell  any  of  you  about  it ;  for  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  approve  of  it,  and  would  break  up  the  fun 
some  way.  Now  I  wish  most  heartily  that  1  had 
spoken  of  it." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "it  might  have  saved  much 
trouble." 

"But,  oh!  George,"  she  continued,  "you've  no 
idea  how  funny  it  was  !  Such  a  ridiculous,  self-con- 
ceited, old-fashioned  ghost  of  a  beau  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "when  it  was  alive  it  courted  your 
grandmother." 

"The  impudence!"  exclaimed  Belle.  "And  to 
think  that  it  supposed  that  I  imagined  it  to  be  a  real 
man !  Why,  one  day,  when  it  was  talking  to  me  it 
stepped  back  into  a  rose-bush  ;  and  it  stood  there  ever 
so  long,  all  mixed  up  with  the  roses  and  leaves." 

"  And  you  knew  it  all  the  time?  " 

These  words  were  spoken  in  a  hollow  voice  by  some 


50        THE  SPECTRAL  MORTGAGE. 

one  near  us.  Turning  quickly,  we  saw  the  ghost  of 
Buck  Edwards,  but  no  longer  the  jaunty  spectre  we 
had  seen  before.  His  hat  was  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
his  knees  were  turned  inward,  his  shoulders  drooped, 
his  head  hung,  and  his  arms  dangled  limp  at  his  sides. 

"  Yes,"  said  Belle,  "  I  knew  it  all  the  time." 

The  ghost  looked  at  her  with  a  faded,  misty  eye ; 
and  then,  instead  of  vanishing  briskly  as  was  his  wont, 
he  began  slowly  and  irresolutely  to  disappear.  First 
his  body  faded  from  view,  then  his  head,  leaving  his 
hat  and  boots.  These  gradually  vanished,  and  the 
last  thing  we  saw  of  the  once  Buck  Edwards  was  a 
dissolving  view  of  the  tip-end  of  a  limp  and  drooping 
riding-whip. 

"He  is  gone,"  said  Belle.  "  We'll  never  see  him 
again." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "he  is  gone.  I  think  your  dis- 
covery of  his  real  nature  has  completely  broken  up 
that  proud  spirit.  And  now,  what  is  to  be  done  about 
Madeline?" 

"Wasn't  it  the  ghost  you  called  an  interloper?" 
asked  Belle. 

"  Certainly  it  was,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  go  and  tell  her  so,"  said  Belle. 

"  About  the  ghost  and  all !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Certainly,"  said  she. 

And  together  we  went  to  Madeline,  and  I  told  her 
all.  I  found  her  with  her  anger  gone,  and  steeped  in 
misery.  When  I  had  finished,  all  Pegramed  as  she 
was,  she  plunged  into  my  arms.  1  pressed  my  wife 
and  child  closely  to  my  bosom,  and  we  wept  with  joy. 


THE  SPECTRAL   MORTGAGE.  51 

When  Will  Crcnshaw  came  home  and  was  told  this 
story,  he  said  it  didn't  trouble  him  a  bit. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  a  rival  like  that,"  he  remarked. 
"Such  a  suitor  wouldn't  stand  a  ghost  of  a  chance." 

44  But  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Madeline,  "that  you  had 
hotter  be  up  and  doing  on  your  own  account.  A  girl 
like  Belle  needn't  be  expected  to  depend  on  the  chance 
of  a  ghost." 

Crenshaw  heeded  her  words,  and  the  young  couple 
were  married  in  the  fall.  The  wedding  took  place  in 
the  little  church  near  our  house.  It  was  a  quiet  mar- 
riage, and  was  attended  by  a  strictly  famity  party. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremonies  I  felt,  or  saw,  for 
I  am  sure  I  did  not  hear  —  a  little  sigh  quite  near  me. 

I  turned,  and  sitting  on  the  chancel-steps  I  saw  the 
spectre  of  Buck  Edwards.  His  head  was  bowed,  and 
his  hands,  holding  his  hat  and  riding-whip,  rested  care- 
lessly on  his  knees. 

"  Bedad,  sir  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  to  think  of  it !  If  I 
hadn't  cut  up  as  I  did  I  might  have  married,  and  have 
been  that  girl's  grandfather !  " 

The  idea  made  me  smile. 

44  It  can't  be  remedied  now,"  I  answered. 

44  Such  a  remark  to  make  at  a  wedding!"  said 
Madeline,  giving  me  a  punch  with  her  reproachful 
elbow. 


OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB. 


WHEN  an  archery  club  was  formed  in  onr  village 
I  was  among  the  first  to  join  it ;  but  I  should 
not,  on  this  account,  claim  any  extraordinary  enthusi- 
asm on  the  subject  of  archery,  for  nearly  all  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  the  place  were  also  among  the  first 
to  join. 

Few  of  us,  I  think,  had  a  correct  idea  of  the  popu- 
larity of  archery  in  our  midst,  until  the  subject  of  a 
club  was  broached.  Then  we  all  perceived  what  a 
strong  interest  we  felt  in  the  study  and  use  of  the  bow 
and  arrow.  The  club  was  formed  immediately ;  and 
our  thirty  members  began  to  discuss  the  relative  merits 
of  lancewood,  yew,  and  greenheart  bows,  and  to  sur- 
vey yards  and  lawns  for  suitable  spots  for  setting  up 
targets  for  home  practice. 

Our  weekly  meetings,  at  which  we  came  together  to 
show  in  friendly  contest  how  much  our  home  practice 
had  taught  us,  were  held  upon  the  village  green,  or 
rather  upon  what  had  been  intended  to  be  the  village 
green.  This  pretty  piece  of  ground,  partly  in  smooth 
lawn,  and  partly  shaded  by  fine  trees,  was  the  property 

62 


OUR   ARCHERY  CLUB.  53 

of  a  gentleman  of  the  place,  who  had  presented  it, 
under  certain  conditions,  to  the  township.  But  as  the 
township  had  never  fulfilled  any  of  the  conditions,  and 
had  done  nothing  toward  the  improvement  of  the  spot, 
further  than  to  make  it  a  grazing-place  for  local  cows 
and  goats,  the  owner  had  withdrawn  his  gift,  shut  out 
the  cows  and  goats  by  a  picket- fence,  and  having 
locked  the  gate,  had  hung  up  the  key  in  his  barn. 
When  our  club  was  formed,  the  green,  as  it  was  still 
called,  was  offered  to  us  for  our  meetings ;  and  with 
proper  gratitude,  we  elected  its  owner  to  be  our  presi- 
dent. 

This  gentleman  was  eminentlj*  qualified  for  the  presi- 
dency of  an  archery  club.  In  the  first  place,  he  did 
not  shoot :  this  gave  him  time  and  opportunity  to 
attend  to  the  shooting  of  others.  He  was  a  tall  and 
pleasant  man,  a  little  elderly.  This  "  elderliness,"  if 
I  may  so  put  it,  seemed,  in  his  case,  to  resemble  some 
mild  disorder,  like  a  gentle  rheumatism,  which,  while 
it  prevented  him  from  indulging  in  all  the  wild  hilari- 
ties of  youth,  gave  him,  in  compensation,  a  position, 
as  one  entitled  to  a  certain  consideration,  which  was 
very  agreeable  to  him.  His  little  disease  was  chronic, 
it  is  true,  and  it  was  growing  upon  him ;  but  it  was, 
so  far,  a  pleasant  ailment. 

And  so,  with  as  much  interest  in  bows,  and  arrows, 
and  targets,  and  successful  shots  as  any  of  us,  he 
never  fitted  an  arrow  to  a  string,  nor  drew  a  bow  ;  but 
he  attended  every  meeting,  settling  disputed  points 
(for  he  studied  all  the  books  on  archery)  ;  encoura- 
ging the  disheartened ;  holding  back  the  eager  ones, 


54  OUR  AECHEEY  CLUB. 

who  would  run  to  the  targets  as  soon  as  they  had  shot, 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  others  were  still  shooting, 
and  that  the  human  body  is  not  arrow-proof;  and 
shedding  about  him  that  general  aid  and  comfort  which 
emanates  from  a  good  fellow,  no  matter  what  he  ma}T 
say  or  do. 

There  were  persons — outsiders — who  said  that  arch- 
ery clubs  always  selected  ladies  for  their  presiding 
officers,  but  we  did  not  care  to  be  too  much  bound 
down  and  trammelled  by  customs  and  traditions. 
Another  club  might  not  have  among  its  members  such 
a  genial,  elderly  gentleman,  who  owned  a  village  green. 

I  soon  found  myself  greatly  interested  in  archery, 
especially  when  I  succeeded  in  planting  an  arrow 
somewhere  within  the  periphery  of  the  target ;  but  I 
never  became  such  an  enthusiast  in  bow-shooting  as 
my  friend  Pepton. 

If  Pepton  could  have  arranged  matters  to  suit  him- 
self, he  would  have  been  born  an  archer ;  but  as  this 
did  not  happen  to  have  been  the  case,  he  employed 
every  means  in  his  power  to  rectify  what  he  consid- 
ered this  serious  error  in  his  construction.  He  gave 
his  whole  soul,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  spare  time, 
to  archery  ;  and  as  he  was  a  young  man  of  energy,  this 
helped  him  along  \vonderfully. 

His  equipments  were  perfect :  no  one  could  excel 
him  in  this  respect.  His  bow  was  snake- wood,  backed 
with  hickory.  He  carefully  rubbed  it  down  every 
evening  with  oil  and  bees-wax,  and  it  took  its  repose, 
in  a  green  baize  bag.  His  arrows  were  Philip  High- 
field's  best ;  his  strings  the  finest  Flander's  hemp. 


OUR  AECHEEY  CLUB.  55 

He  hr.d  shooting-gloves  ;  and  he  had  little  leathern  tips, 
that  could  be  screwed  fast  on  the  ends  of  what  he 
called  his  string-fingers.  He  had  a  quiver  and  a  belt ; 
and  when  equipped  for  the  weekly  meetings,  he  carried 
a  fancy-colored  wiping-tassel,  and  a  little  ebony  grease- 
pot,  hanging  from  his  belt.  He  wore,  when  shooting, 
a  polished  arm-guard  or  bracer ;  and  if  he  had  heard 
of  any  thing  else  that  an  archer  should  have,  he 
straightway  would  have  procured  it. 

Pepton  was  a  single  man ;  and  he  lived  with  two 
good  old  maiden  ladies,  who  took  as  much  care  of  him 
as  if  they  had  been  his  mothers.  And  he  was  such 
a  good,  kind  fellow  that  he  deserved  all  the  attention 
they  gave  him.  They  felt  a  great  interest  in  his  arch- 
ery pursuits,  and  shared  his  anxious  solicitude  in  the 
selection  of  a  suitable  place  to  hang  his  bow. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  "a  fine  bow  like  this,  when 
not  in  use,  should  always  be  in  a  perfectly  dry  place." 

44  And  when  in  use,  too,"  said  Miss  Martha  ;  4t  for 
I  am  sure  that  you  oughtn't  to  be  standing  and  shoot- 
ing in  any  damp  spot.  There's  no  surer  way  of  get- 
tin'  chilled." 

To  which  sentiment  Miss  Maria  agreed,  and  sug- 
gested wearing  rubber  shoes,  or  having  a  board  to 
stand  on,  when  the  club  met  after  a  rain. 

Pepton  first  hung  his  bow  in  the  hall ;  but  after  he 
had  arranged  it  symmetrically  upon  two  long  nails 
(bound  with  green  worsted,  lest  they  should  scratch 
the  bow  through  its  woollen  cover) ,  he  reflected  that 
the  front  door  would  frequently  be  open,  and  that 
damp  draughts  must  often  go  through  the  hall.  He 


56  OUR  Aliens RY  CLUB. 

was  sorry  to  give  np  this  place  for  his  bow,  for  it  was 
convenient  and  appropriate ;  and  for  an  instant  he 
thought  that  it  might  remain,  if  the  front  door  could 
be  kept  shut,  arid  visitors  admitted  through  a  little 
side  door,  which  the  family  generally  used,  and  which 
was  almost  as  convenient  as  the  other,  —  except,  in- 
deed, on  wash-days,  when  a  wet  sheet  or  some  article 
of  wearing  apparel  was  apt  to  be  hung  in  front  of  it. 
But,  although  wash-day  occurred  but  once  a  week, 
and  although  it  was  comparatively  easy,  after  a  little 
practice,  to  bob  under  a  high-propped  sheet,  Pepton's 
heart  was  too  kind  to  allow  his  mind  to  dwell  upon 
this  plan.  So  he  drew  the  nails  from  the  wall  of  the 
hall,  and  put  them  up  in  various  places  about  the 
bouse.  His  own  room  had  to  be  aired  a  great  deal  in 
all  weathers,  and  so  that  would  not  do  at  all.  The 
wall  above  the  kitchen  fire-place  would  be  a  good  loca- 
tion, for  the  chimney  was  nearly  always  warm  ;  but 
Pepton  could  not  bring  himself  to  keep  his  bow  in  the 
kitchen :  there  would  be  nothing  aesthetic  about  such 
a  disposition  of  it ;  and,  besides,  the  girl  might  be 
tempted  to  string  and  bend  it.  The  old  ladies  really 
did  not  want  it  in  the  parlor,  for  its  length  and  its 
green  baize  cover  would  make  it  an  encroaching  and 
unbecoming  neighbor  to  the  little  engravings  and  the 
big  samplers,  the  picture-frames  of  acorns  and  pine- 
rones,  the  fancifully  patterned  ornaments  of  clean 
wheat-straw,  and  all  the  quaint  adornments  which  had 
hung  upon  those  walls  for  so  many  years.  But  they 
did  not  say  so.  If  it  had  been  necessary,  to  make 
room  for  the  bow,  they  would  have  taken  down  tke 


OUR  AECUEET  CLUB.  67 

pencilled  profiles  of  their  grandfather,  their  grand- 
mother, and  their  father  when  a  little  boy,  which  hung 
in  a  row  over  the  mantel-piece. 

However,  Pepton  did  not  ask  this  sacrifice.  In  the 
summer  evenings,  the  parlor  windows  must  be  opeL. 
The  dining-room  was  really  very  little  used  in  the 
evening,  except  when  Miss  Maria  had  stockings  to 
darn ;  and  then  she  always  sat  in  that  apartment,  and 
of  course  she  had  the  windows  open.  But  Miss  Maria 
was  very  willing  to  bring  her  work  into  the  parlor,  — 
it  was  foolish,  any  way,  to  have  a  feeling  about  darn- 
ing stockings  before  chance  company,  —  and  then  the 
dining-room  could  be  kept  shut  up  after  tea.  So  into 
the  wall  of  that  neat  little  room  Pepton  drove  his 
worsted-covered  nails,  and  on  them  carefully  laid  his 
bow.  And  the  next  day  Miss  Martha  and  Miss  Maria 
went  about  the  house,  and  covered  the  nail-holes  he 
had  made  with  bits  of  wall-paper,  carefully  snipped 
out  to  fit  the  patterns,  and  pasted  on  so  neatly  that  no 
one  would  have  suspected  they  were  there. 

One  afternoon,  as  I  was  passing  the  old  ladies' 
house.  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  two  men  carrying  in  a, 
coffin.  I  was  struck  with  alarm. 

"What!"  I  thought,  "can  either  of  those  good 
women  ? Or,  can  Peptou  ?  " 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  I  rushed  ia  behind 
the  men.  There,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.,  directing 
them,  stood  Pepton.  Then  it  was  not  he !  I  seized 
him  sympathetically  by  the  hand. 

"Which?" I  faltered.  "Which?  Who  is 

that  coffin  for?" 


68  OUR   ARCHERY  CLUB. 

"Coffin!"  cried  Pepton,  "why,  my  dear  fellow, 
that  is  not  a  coffin.  That  is  my  ascham." 

4 '  Ascham  ?  "  I  exclaimed.     What  is  that  ?  ' ' 

"  Come  and  look  at  it,"  he  said,  when  the  men  had 
set  it  on  end  against  the  wall ;  "  it  is  an  upright  closet, 
or  receptacle  for  an  archer's  armament.  Here  is  a 
place  to  stand  the  bow ;  here  are  supports  for  the 
arrows  and  quivers ;  here  are  shelves  and  hooks,  on 
which  to  lay  or  hang  every  thing  the  merry  man  can 
need.  And  you  see,  moreover,  that  it  is  lined  with 
green  plush,  and  that  the  door  fits  tightly,  so  that  it 
can  stand  anywhere,  and  there  need  be  no  fear  of 
draughts  or  dampness  affecting  my  bow.  Isn't  it  a 
perfect  thing?  You  ought  to  get  one." 

I  admitted  the  perfection,  but  agreed  no  further.  I 
had  not  the  income  of  my  good  Pepton. 

Peptou  was,  indeed,  most  wonderfully  well  equipped, 
and  yet,  little  did  those  dear  old  ladies  think,  when 
they  carefully  dusted  and  reverentially  gazed  at  the 
bunches  of  arrows,  the  arm-bracers,  the  gloves,  the 
grease-pots,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  paraphernalia  of 
archery,  as  it  hung  around  Pepton 's  room ;  or  when 
they  afterward  allowed  a  particular  friend  to  peep  at 
ifc,  all  arranged  so  orderly  within  the  ascham  ;  or  when 
they  looked  with  sympathetic,  loving  admiration  on  the 
beautiful  polished  bow,  when  it  was  taken  out  of  its 
bag,  —  little  did  they  think,  I  say,  that  Peptou  was 
the  very  poorest  shot  in  the  club.  In  all  the  surface 
of  the  much  perforated  targets  of  the  club,  there  was 
scarcely  a  hole  that  he  could  put  his  hand  upon  his 
heart  and  say  he  made. 


OUR  AECHEEY  CLUB.  59 

indeed,  I  think  it  was  the  truth  that  Pepton  was 
born  not  to  be  an  archer.  There  were  young  fellows 
in  the  club,  who  shot  with  bows  that  cost  no  more 
than  Pepton 's  tassels,  but  who  could  stand  up  and 
whang  arrows  into  the  targets  all  the  afternoon,  if 
they  could  get  a  chance ;  and  there  were  ladies  who 
made  hits  five  times  out  of  six  ;  and  there  were  also 
all  the  grades  of  archers  common  to  any  club.  But 
there  was  no  one  but  himself  in  Pepton's  grade.  He 
stood  alone,  and  it  was  never  any  trouble  to  add  up 
his  score. 

And  yet  he  was  not  discouraged.  He  practised 
every  day  except  Sundays,  and  indeed  he  was  the 
only  person  in  the  club  who  practised  at  night.  When 
he  told  me  about  this,  I  was  a  little  surprised. 

"Why,  it's  easy  enough,"  said  he.  "You  see,  I 
hung  a  lantern,  with  a  reflector,  before  the  target,  just 
a  little  to  one  side.  It  lighted  up  the  target  beauti- 
fully ;  and  I  believe  there  was  a  better  chance  of  hitting 
it  than  by  daylight,  for  the  only  thing  you  could  see 
was  the  target,  and  so  your  attention  was  not  distract- 
ed. To  be  sure,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  a  question, 
"  it  was  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  find  the  arrows,  but 
that  I  always  have.  When  I  get  so  expert  that  I  can 
put  all  the  arrows  into  the  target,  there  will  be  no 
trouble  of  the  kind,  night  or  day.  However,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  don't  practise  any  more  by  night.  The 
other  evening  I  sent  an  arrow  slam-bang  into  the  lan- 
tern, and  broke  it  all  to  flinders.  Borrowed  lantern, 
too.  Besides,  I  found  it  made  Miss  Martha  very 
nervous  to  have  me  shooting  about  the  house  after 


60  OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB. 

dark.  She  had  a  friend,  who  had  a  little  boy,  whc 
was  hit  in  the  leg  by  an  arrow  from  a  bow,  which,  she 
says,  accidentally  went  off  in  the  night,  of  its  own 
accord.  She  is  certainly  a  little  mixed  in  her  mind  in 
regard  to  this  matter ;  but  I  wished  to  respect  her 
feelings,  and  so  shall  not  use  another  lantern." 

As  I  have  said,  there  were  many  good  archers  among 
the  ladies  of  our  club.  Some  of  them,  after  we  had 
been  organized  for  a  month  or  two,  made  scores  that 
few  of  the  gentlemen  could  excel.  But  the  lady  who 
attracted  the  greatest  attention  when  she  shot  was 
Miss  Rosa. 

When  this  very  pretty  young  lady  stood  up  before 
the  ladies'  target  —  her  left  side  well  advanced,  her 
bow  firmly  held  out  in  her  strong  left  arm,  which  never 
quivered,  her  head  a  little  bent  to  the  right,  her  arrow 
drawn  back  by  three  well-gloved  fingers  to  the  tip  of 
her  little  ear,  her  dark  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  the 
gold,  and  her  dress  —  well  fitted  over  her  fine  and 
vigorous  figure  —  falling  in  graceful  folds  about  her 
feet,  we  all  stopped  shooting  to  look  at  her. 

"  There  is  something  statuesque  about  her,"  said 
Pepton,  who  ardently  admired  her,  "  and  yet  there 
isn't.  A  statue  could  never  equal  her  unless  we  knew 
there  was  a  probability  of  movement  in  it.  And  the 
only  statues  which  have  that  are  the  Jarley  wax-works, 
which  she  does  not  resemble  in  the  least.  There  is 
only  one  thing  that  that  girl  needs  to  make  her  a  per- 
fect archer,  and  that  is  to  be  able  to  aim  better." 

This  was  true.  Miss  Rosa  did  need  to  aim  better. 
Her  arrows  had  a  curious  habit  of  going  on  all  sides  of 


OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB.  61 

the  target,  and  it  was  very  seldom  that  one  chanced  to 
stick  into  it.  For,  if  she  did  make  a  hit,  we  all  knew 
it  was  chance  and  that  there  was  no  probability  of  her 
doing  it  again.  Once  she  put  an  arrow  right  into  the 
centre  of  the  gold,  —  one  of  the  finest  shots  ever  made 
on  the  ground,  —  but  she  didn't  hit  the  target  again 
for  two  weeks.  She  was  almost  as  bad  a  shot  as 
Pepton,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  with  Pepton  on  the  little 
front  porch  of  the  old  ladies'  house,  where  we  were 
taking  our  after-dinner  smoke  while  Miss  Martha  and 
Miss  Maria  were  washing,  with  their  own  white  hands, 
the  china  and  glass  in  which  they  took  so  much  pride. 
I  often  used  to  come  over  and  spend  an  hour  with 
Pepton.  He  -liked  to  have  some  one  to  whom  he  could 
talk  on  the  subjects  which  filled  his  soul,  and  I  liked  to 
hear  him  talk. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  he,  as  he  leaned  back  in  bis  chair, 
with  his  feet  carefully  disposed  on  the  railing  so  that 
they  would  not  injure  Miss  Maria's  Madeira  vine,  "  I 
tell  you,  sir,  that  there  are  two  things  I  crave  with  all 
my  power  of  craving ;  two  goals  I  fain  would  reach ; 
two  diadems  I  would  wear  upon  my  brow.  One  of 
these  is  to  kill  an  eagle  —  or  some  large  bird  —  with 
a  shaft  from  my  good  bow.  I  would  then  have  it 
stuffed  and  mounted,  with  the  very  arrow  that  killed 
it  still  sticking  in  its  breast.  This  trophy  of  my  skill 
I  would  have  fastened  against  the  wall  of  my  room,  or 
my  hall,  and  I  would  feel  proud  to  think  that  my 
grandchildren  could  point  to  that  bird  —  which  I 
would  carefully  bequeath  to  my  descendants  —  and 


02  OUR  AllCHEEY  CLUB. 

say,  '  My  grand' ther  shot  that  bird,  and  with  that 
very  arrow.'  Would  it  not  stir  your  pulses,  if  you 
could  do  a  thing  like  that?  " 

' '  I  should  have  to  stir  them  up  a  good  deal  before 
I  could  do  it,"  I  replied.  "  It  would  be  a  hard  thing 
to  shoot  an  eagle  with  an  arrow.  If  you  want  a  stuffed 
bird  to  bequeath,  you'd  better  use  a  rifle." 

"  A  rifle!  "  exclaimed  Pepton.  u  There  would  be 
no  glory  in  that.  There  are  lots  of  birds  shot  with 
rules,  —  eagles,  hawks,  wild  geese,  torn-tits  " 

4k  Oh,  no  !  "  I  interrupted,  "  not  torn-tits." 

44  Well,  perhaps  they  are  too  little  for  a  rifle,"  said 
he ;  "  but  what  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  I  wouldn't  care 
at  all  for  an  eagle  I  had  shot  with  a  rifle.  You  couldn't 
show  the  ball  that  killed  him.  If  it  were  put  in  prop- 
erly, it  would  be  inside,  where  it  couldn't  be  seen. 
No,  sir ;  it  is  ever  so  much  more  honorable,  and  far 
more  difficult,  too,  to  hit  an  eagle  than  to  hit  a  target." 

44  That  is  very  true,"  I  answered,  4i  especially  in 
these  days,  when  there  are  so  few  eagles  and  so  many 
targets.  But  what  is  your  other  diadem?  " 

44  That,"  said  Pepton,  44  is  to  see  Miss  Rosa  wear 
the  badge." 

44  Indeed  !  "  said  I ;  and  from  that  moment  I  began 
to  understand  Pepton 's  hopes  in  regard  to  the  grand- 
mother of  those  children  who  should  point  to  tlie 
eagle. 

44  Yes,  sir,"  he  continued,  '4 1  should  be  truly  happ}? 
to  see  her  win  the  badge.  And  she  ought  to  win  it. 
No  one  shoots  more  correctly,  and  with  a  better  un- 
derstanding of  all  the  rules,  than  she  does.  There 


OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB.  63 

must,  truly,  be  something  the  matter  with  her  aiming, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  coach  her  a  little." 

I  turned  aside  to  see  who  was  coming  down  the 
road.  I  would  not  have  had  him  know  I  smiled. 

The  most  objectionable  person  in  our  club  was  O.  J. 
Rollings  worth.  He  was  a  good  enough  fellow  in  him- 
self, but  it  was  as  an  archer  that  we  objected  to  him. 
There  was,  so  far  as  I  know,  scarcely  a  rule  of  arch- 
ery that  he  did  not  habitually  violate.  Our  president 
and  nearly  all  of  us  remonstrated  with  him,  and  Pepton 
even  went  to  see  him  on  the  subject ;  but  it  was  all  to 
no  purpose.  "With  a  quiet  disregard  of  other  people's 
ideas  about  bow-shooting  and  other  people's  opinions 
about  himself,  he  persevered  in  a  style  of  shooting 
which  appeared  absolutely  absurd  to  any  one  who 
knew  any  thing  of  the  rules  and  methods  of  archery. 

I  used  to  like  to  look  at  him  when  his  turn  came 
around  to  shoot.  He  was  not  such  a  pleasing  object  of 
vision  as  Miss  Rosa,  but  his  style  was  so  entirely  novel 
to  me  that  it  was  interesting.  He  held  the  bow  hori- 
zontally, instead  of  perpendicularly,  like  other  archers  ; 
and  he  held  it  well  down  —  about  opposite  his  waist- 
band. He  did  not  draw  his  arrow  back  to  his  ear,  but 
he  drew  it  back  to  the  lower  button  of  his  vest.  Instead 
of  standing  upright,  with  his  left  side  to  the  target,  he 
faced  it  full,  and  leaned  forward  over  his  arrow,  in  an 
attitude  which  reminded  me  of  a  Roman  soldier  about 
to  fall  upon  his  sword.  When  he  had  seized  the  nock 
of  his  arrow  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  he  languidly 
glanced  at  the  target,  raised  his  bow  a  little,  and  let 
fly.  The  provoking  thing  about  it  was  that  he  nearly 


64  OUE   ARCHERY  CLUB. 

always  hit.  If  lie  had  only  known  how  to  stand,  and 
hold  his  bow,  and  draw  back  his  arrow,  he  would  have 
been  a  very  good  archer.  But,  as  it  was,  we  could  not 
help  laughing  at  him,  although  our  president  always 
discountenanced  any  thing  of  the  kind. 

Our  Champion  was  a  tall  man,  very  cool  and  steady, 
who  went  to  work  at  archery  exactly  as  if  he  were  paid 
a  salary,  and  intended  to  earn  his  money  honestly. 
He  did  the  best  he  could  in  every  way.  He  generally 
shot  with  one  of  the  bows  owned  by  the  club ;  but  if 
any  one  on  the  ground  had  a  better  one,  he  would 
borrow  it.  He  used  to  shoot  sometimes  with  Pepton's 
bow,  which  he  declared  to  be  a  most  capital  one ;  but 
as  Pepton  was  always  very  nervous  when  he  saw  his 
bow  in  the  hands  of  another  than  himself,  the  Cham- 
pion soon  ceased  to  borrow  it. 

There  were  two  badges,  one  of  green  silk  and  gold, 
for  the  ladLs,  and  one  of  green  and  red,  for  the  gentle- 
men ;  and  these  were  shot  for  at  each  weekly  meeting. 
With  the  exception  of  a  few  times,  when  the  club  was 
first  formed,  the  Champion  had  always  worn  the  gen- 
tlemen's badge.  Many  of  us  tried  hard  to  win  it 
from  him  ;  but  we  never  could  succeed  —  he  shot  too 
well. 

On  the  morning  of  one  of  our  meeting  days,  the 
Champion  told  me,  as  I  was  going  to  the  city  with  him, 
that  he  would  not  be  able  to  return  at  his  usual  hour 
that  afternoon.  He  would  be  very  busy,  and  would 
have  to  wait  for  the  6.15  train,  which  would  bring  him 
home  too  late  for  the  archery  meeting.  So  he  gave 
me  the  badge,  asking  me  to  hand  it  to  the  president. 


OUll   ARCHERY   CLUB.  65 

that  he  might  bestow  it  on  the  successful  competitor 
that  afternoon. 

We  were  all  rather  glad  that  the  Champion  was 
obliged  to  be  absent.  Here  was  a  chance  for  some  one 
of  us  to  win  the  badge.  It  was  not,  indeed,  an  oppor- 
tunity for  us  to  win  a  great  deal  of  honor,  for  if  the 
Champion  were  to  be  there,  we  should  have  no  chance 
at  all ;  but  we  were  satisfied  with  this  much,  having  no 
reason  —  in  the  present,  at  least  —  to  expect  any  thing 
more. 

So  we  went  to  the  targets  with  a  new  zeal,  and  most 
of  us  shot  better  than  we  had  ever  shot  before.  In 
this  number  was  O.  J.  Hollingsworth.  He  excelled 
himself,  and,  what  w^as  worse,  he  excelled  all  the  rest 
of  us.  He  actually  made  a  score  of  eighty-five  in 
twenty-four  shots,  which  at  that  time  was  remarkably 
good  shooting,  for  our  club.  This  was  dreadful !  To 
have  a  fellow,  who  didn't  know  how  to  shoot,  beat  us 
all,  was  too  bad.  If  any  visitor  who  knew  any  thing 
at  all  of  archery  should  see  that  the  member  who  wore 
the  champion's  badge  was  a  man  who  held  his  bow  as 
if  he  had  the  stomach-ache,  it  would  ruin  our  character 
as  a  club.  It  was  not  to  be  borne. 

Pepton,  in  particular,  felt  greatly  outraged.  We 
had  met  very  promptly  that  afternoon,  and  had  finished 
our  regular  shooting  much  earlier  than  usual ;  and  now 
a  knot  of  us  were  gathered  together,  talking  over  this 
unfortunate  occurrence. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  stand  it,"  Pepton  sudden  ry  ex- 
claimed. UI  feel  it  as  a  personal  disgrace.  I'm 
going  to  have  the  Champion  here  before  dark.  By  the 


66  OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB. 

rules,  he  has  a  right  to  shoot  until  the  president  de- 
clares it  is  too  late.  Some  of  you  fellows  stay  here, 
and  I'll  bring  him." 

And  away  he  ran,  first  giving  me  charge  of  his  pre- 
cious bow.  There  was  no  need  of  his  asking  us  to 
stay.  We  were  bound  to  see  the  fun  out ;  and  to  fill 
up  the  time  our  president  offered  a  special  prize  of  a 
handsome  bouquet  from  his  gardens,  to  be  shot  for  by 
the  ladies. 

Pepton  ran  to  the  railroad  station,  and  telegraphed 
to  the  Champion.  This  was  his  message : 

"  You  are  absolutely  needed  here.  If  possible,  take  the  5.30 
train  for  Ackford.  I  will  drive  over  for  you.  Answer." 

There  was  no  train  before  the  6.15  by  which  the 
Champion  could  come  directly  to  our  village ;  but 
Ackford,  a  small  town  about  three  miles  distant,  was 
on  another  railroad,  on  which  there  were  frequent  after- 
noon trains. 

The  Champion  answered : 

"All  right.    Meet  me." 

Then  Pepton  rushed  to  our  livery  stable,  hired  a 
horse  and  buggy,  and  drove  to  Ackford. 

A  little  after  half-past  six,  when  several  of  us  were 
beginning  to  think  that  Pepton  had  failed  in  his  plans, 
he  drove  rapidly  into  the  grounds,  making  a  very  short 
turn  at  the  gate,  and  pulled  up  his  panting  horse  just 
in  time  to  avoid  running  over  three  ladies,  who  were 
seated  on  the  grass.  The  Champion  was  by  his  side  ! 

The  latter  lost  no  time  in  talking  or  salutations. 
He  knew  what  he  had  been  brought  there  to  do,  and 


OUR   ARCHERY  CLUB.  67 

he  immediately  set  about  trying  to  do  it.  He  took 
Pepton's  bow,  which  the  latter  urged  upon  him;  he 
stood  up,  straight  and  firm  on  the  line,  at  thirty-five 
yards  from  the  gentlemen's  target ;  he  carefully  se- 
lected his  arrows,  examining  the  feathers  and  wiping 
away  any  bit  of  soil  that  might  be  adhering  to  the 
points  after  some  one  had  shot  them  into  the  turf ; 
with  vigorous  arm  he  drew  each  arrow  to  its  head ;  he 
fixed  his  eyes  and  his  whole  mind  on  the  centre  of  the 
target ;  he  shot  his  twenty-four  arrows,  handed  to  him, 
one  by  one,  by  Pepton,  and  he  made  a  score  of  ninety- 
one. 

The  whole  club  had  been  scoring  the  shots,  as  they 
were  made,  and  when  the  last  arrow  plumped  into  the 
red  ring,  a  cheer  arose  from  every  member  excepting 
three :  the  Champion,  the  president  and  O.  J.  Hol- 
lings worth.  But  Pepton  cheered  loudly  enough  to 
make  up  these  deficiencies. 

41  What  in  the  mischief  did  they  cheer  him  for?'* 
asked  Hollingsworth  of  me.  "  They  didn't  cheer  me, 
when  I  beat  everybody  on  the  gounds,  an  hour  ago. 
And  it's  no  new  thing  for  him  to  win  the  badge ;  he 
does  it  every  time." 

"Well,"  said  I,  frankly,  UI  think  the  club,  as  a 
club,  objects  to  your  wearing  the  badge,  because  you 
don't  know  how  to  shoot." 

"  Don't  know  how  to  shoot !  "  he  cried.  "  Why,  J 
3an  hit  the  target  better  than  any  of  you.  Isn't  that 
what  you  try  to  do  when  3*011  shoot  ? ' ' 

41  Yes,"  said  I,  "of  course  that  is  what  we  try  to 
do.  But  we  try  to  do  it  in  the  proper  way." 


68  OUR  AECIIEEY  CLUB. 

"  Proper  grandmother  !  "  be  exclaimed.  "  It  don't 
seem  to  help  you  much.  The  best  thing  you  fellows 
can  do  is  to  learn  to  shoot  my  way,  and  then  perhaps 
you  may  be  able  to  hit  oftener." 

When  the  Champion  had  finished  shooting,  he  went 
home  to  his  dinner,  but  many  of  us  stood  about,  talk- 
ing over  our  great  escape. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  done  that  myself,"  said  Pepton. 
" 1  am  almost  as  proud  as  if  I  had  shot  —  well,  not  an 
eagle,  but  a  soaring  lark." 

4 '  Why,  that  ought  to  make  you  prouder  than  the 
other,"  said  I ;  "  for  a  lark,  especially  when  it's  soar- 
ing, must  be  a  good  deal  harder  to  hit  than  an  eagle." 

" That's  so,"  said  Pepton,  reflectively;  "but  I'll 
stick  to  the  lark.  I'm  proud." 

During  the  next  month  our  style  of  archery  improved 
very  much,  so  much,  indeed,  that  we  increased  our 
distance,  for  gentlemen,  to  forty  yards,  and  that  for 
ladies  to  thirty,  and  also  had  serious  thoughts  of  chal- 
lenging the  Ackford  club  to  a  match.  But  as  this  was 
generally  understood  to  be  a  crack  club,  we  finally  de- 
termined to  defer  our  challenge  until  the  next  season. 

When  I  say  we  improved,  1  do  not  mean  all  of  us.  I 
do  not  mean  Miss  Rosa.  Although  her  attitudes  were 
as  fine  as  ever,  and  every  motion  as  true  to  rule  as 
ever,  she  seldom  made  a  hit.  Pepton  actually  did  try 
to  teach  her  how  to  aim  ;  but  the  various  methods  of 
pointing  the  arrow  which  he  suggested  resulted  in  such 
wild  shooting,  that  the  boys  who  picked  up  the  arrows 
never  dared  to  stick  the  points  of  their  noses  beyond 
their  boarded  barricade,  during  Miss  Rosa's  turns  at 


OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB.  69 

the  target.  But  she  was  not  discouraged  ;  and  Pepton 
often  assured  her  that  if  she  would  keep  up  a  good 
heart,  and  practise  regularly,  she  would  get  the  badge 
yet.  As  a  rule,  Pepton  was  so  honest  and  truthful 
that  a  little  statement  of  this  kind,  especially  under 
the  circumstances,  might  be  forgiven  him. 

One  day  Pepton  came  to  me  and  announced  that  he 
had  made  a  discovery. 

44  It's  about  archery,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  because  I  know  you  will  not  go  about  tell- 
ing everybody  else,  and  also  because  I  want  to  see  you 
succeed  as  an  archer." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged,"  I  said  ;  "  and  what  is  the 
discovery  ? ' ' 

"It's  this,"  he  answered.  "When  you  draw  your 
bow,  bring  the  nock  of  your  arrow"  —  he  was  always 
very  particular  about  technical  terms  —  "well  up  to 
your  ear.  Having  done  that,  don't  bother  any  more 
about  your  right  hand.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
correct  pointing  of  your  arrow,  for  it  must  be  kept 
close  to  your  right  ear,  just  as  if  it  were  screwed  there. 
Then  with  your  left  hand  bring  around  the  bow  so  that 
your  fist — with  the  arrow-head,  which  is  resting  on  top 
of  it  —  shall  point,  as  nearly  as  you  can  make  it,  di- 
rectly at  the  centre  of  the  target.  Then  let  fly,  and 
ten  to  one  you'll  make  a  hit.  Now,  what  do  you  think 
of  that,  for  a  discovery?  I've  thoroughly  tested  the 
plan,  and  it  works  splendidly." 

" I  think,"  said  I,  "that  you  have  discovered  the  way 
in  which  good  archers  shoot.  You  have  stated  the 
correct  method  of  managing  a  bow  and  arrow." 


70  OUR  ARCHERY  CLUB 

"  Then  you  don't  think  it's  an  original  method  with 
me?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  answered. 

"  But  it's  the  correct  way?  " 

"  There's  no  doubt  of  that,"  said  I. 

4 'Well,"  said  Pepton,  "then  I  shall  make  it  my 
way." 

He  did  so ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  one  day, 
when  the  Champion  happened  to  be  away,  Pepton  won 
the  badge.  When  the  result  was  announced,  we  were 
all  surprised,  but  none  so  much  so  as  Pepton  himself. 
He  had  been  steadily  improving  since  he  had  adopted 
a  good  style  of  shooting,  but  he  had  had  no  idea  that 
he  would  that  day  be  able  to  win  the  badge. 

When  our  president  pinned  the  emblem  of  success 
upon  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  Pepton  turned  pale,  and 
then  he  flushed.  He  thanked  the  president,  and  was 
about  to  thank  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  but  probably 
recollecting  that  we  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  — 
unless,  indeed,  we  had  shot  badly  on  his  behalf,  —  he 
refrained.  He  said  little,  but  I  could  see  that  he  was 
very  proud  and  very  happy.  There  was  but  one  draw- 
back to  his  triumph :  Miss  Rosa  was  not  there.  She 
was  a  very  regular  attendant,  but  for  some  reason  she 
was  absent  on  this  momentous  afternoon.  I  did  not 
say  any  thing  to  him  on  the  subject,  but  I  knew  he 
felt  this  absence  deeply. 

But  this  cloud  could  not  wholly  overshadow  his  hap- 
piness. He  walked  home  alone,  his  face  beaming,  his 
eyes  sparkling,  and  his  good  bow  under  his  arm. 

That  evening  I  called  on  him ;  for  I  thought  that, 


OUR  ARCHER Y  CLUB.  71 

when  he  had  cooled  down  a  little,  he  would  like  to 
talk  over  the  affair.  But  he  was  not  in.  Miss  Maria 
said  that  he  had  gone  out  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
his  dinner,  which  he  hurried  through  in  a  way  which 
would  certainly  injure  his  digestion  if  he  kept  up  the 
practice  ;  and  dinner  was  late,  too,  for  they  waited  for 
him  ;  and  the  archery  meeting  lasted  a  long  time  to- 
day ;  and  it  really  was  not  right  for  him  to  stay  out 
after  the  dew  began  to  fall  with  only  ordinary  shoes  on, 
for  what's  the  good  of  knowing  how  to  shoot  a  bow 
and  arrow,  if  you're  laid  up  in  your  bed  with  rheuma- 
tism or  disease  of  the  lungs !  Good  old  lady !  She 
would  have  kept  Pepton  in  a  green  baize  bag,  had  such 
a  thing  been  possible. 

The  next  morning,  full  two  hours  before  church- 
time,  Pepton  called  on  me.  His  face  was  still  beam- 
ing. I  could  not  help  smiling. 

11  Your  happiness  lasts  well,"  I  said. 

4 '  Lasts  !  "  he  exclaimed.    4 '  Why  shouldn't  it  last ! ' ' 

"  There's  no  reason  why  it  should  not  —  at  least  for 
a  week,"  I  said.  "And  even  longer,  if  you  repeat 
your  success." 

I  did  not  feel  so  much  like  congratulating  Pepton  as 
I  had  on  the  previous  evening.  I  thought  he  was 
making  too  much  of  his  badge-winning. 

"Look  here!"  said  Pepton,  seating  himself,  and 
drawing  his  chair  close  to  me,  "  you  are  shooting  wild 
—  very  wild  indeed.  You  don't  even  see  the  target. 
Let  me  tell  you  something.  Last  evening  I  went  to 
see  Miss  Rosa.  She  was  delighted  at  my  success.  I 
had  not  expected  this.  I  thought  she  would  be  pleased, 


72  OUR   ARCHERY  CLUB. 

but  not  to  such  a  degree.  Her  congratulations  were 
so  warm  that  they  set  me  on  fire." 

"They  must  have  been  very  warm  indeed,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"'Miss  Rosa,'  said  I,"  continued  Pepton,  without 
regarding  my  interruption,  "  '  it  has  been  my  fondest 
hope  to  see  you  wear  the  badge.'  '  But  I  never  could 
get  it,  you  know,'  she  said.  '  You  have  got  it,'  I  ex- 
claimed. '  Take  this.  I  won  it  for  you.  Make  me 
happy  by  wearing  it.'  'I  can't  do  that,'  she  said. 
'That  is  a  gentleman's  badge.'  'Take  it,'  I  cried, 
'  gentleman  and  all ! ' 

"  I  can't  tell  you  all  that  happened  after  that,"  con- 
tinued Pepton.  "  You  know  it  wouldn't  do.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  she  wears  the  badge.  And  we  are 
both  her  own  —  the  badge  and  I !  " 

Now  I  congratulated  him  in  good  earnest.  There 
was  a  reason  for  it. 

"  I  don't  care  a  snap  now  for  shooting  an  eagle," 
said  Pepton,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  striding  up  and 
down  the  floor.  "  Let  'em  all  fly  free  for  me.  I  have 
made  the  most  glorious  shot  that  man  could  make.  I 
have  hit  the  gold  —  hit  it  fair  in  the  very  centre  !  And 
what's  more,  I've  knocked  it  clean  out  of  the  target ! 
Nobody  else  can  ever  make  such  a  shot.  The  rest 
of  you  fellows  will  have  to  be  content  to  hit  the 
red,  the  blue,  the  black,  or  the  white.  The  gold  is 
mine !  " 

I  called  on  the  old  ladies,  some  time  after  this,  and 
found  them  alone.  They  were  generally  alone  in  the 
evenings  now.  We  talked  about  Pepton's  engagement, 


OUR   ABCLLERY  CLUB.  73 

and  I  found  them  resigned.     They  were  sorry  to  lose 
him,  but  they  wanted  him  to  be  happy. 

"We  have  always  known,"  said  Miss  Martha,  with 
a  little  sigh,  "  that  we  must  die,  and  that  he  must  get 
married.  But  we  don't  intend  to  repine.  These  things 
will  come  to  people."  And  her  little  sigh  ~-j.s  followed 
by  a  smile,  still  smaller. 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 


TTTE  were  sitting  on  the  store-porch  of  a  small  Vir- 
V  V  ginia  village.  I  was  one  of  the  party,  and 
Martin  Heiskill  was  the  other  one.  Martin  had  been 
out  fishing,  which  was  an  unusual  thing  for  him. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  he,  as  he  held  up  the  small  string 
of  fish  which  he  had  laid  carefully  under  his  chair 
when  he  sat  down  to  light  his  pipe ;  "that's  all  I've 
got  to  show  for  a  day's  work.  But  'taint  often  that 
I  waste  time  that  way.  I  don't  b'lieve  in  huntin'  fur 
a  thing  that  ye  can't  see.  If  fishes  sot  on  trees,  now, 
and  ye  could  shoot  at  'em,  I'd  go  out  and  hunt  fishes 
with  anybody.  But  its  mighty  triflin'  work  to  be  goin' 
it  blind  in  a  mill-pond." 

I  ventured  to  state  that  there  were  fish  that  were 
occasionally  found  on  trees.  In  India,  for  instance, 
a  certain  fish  climbs  trees. 

"A  which  what's?"  exclaimed  Martin,  with  an 
arrangement  of  pronouns  peculiar  to  himself. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  he  said,  when  I  had  told  him  all  I  knew 
about  this  bit  of  natural  history.  "  That's  very  likely. 
I  reckon  they  do  that  up  North,  where  you  come  from, 
74 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  75 

in  some  of  them  towns  you  was  tellin'  me  about,  where 
there's  so  many  houses  that  they  tech  each  other." 

"That's  all  true  about  the  fishes,  Martin,"  said  I, 
wisely  making  no  reference  to  the  houses,  for  I  did 
not  want  to  push  his  belief  too  hard  ;  "  but  we'll  drop 
them  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "I  think  we'd  better." 

Martin  was  a  good  fellow  and  no  fool ;  but  he  had 
not  travelled  much,  and  had  no  correct  ideas  of  cities, 
nor,  indeed,  of  much  of  any  thing  outside  of  his  native 
backwoods.  But  of  those  backwoods  he  knew  more 
than  any  other  man  I  ever  met.  He  liked  to  talk,  but 
he  resented  tall  stories. 

"Martin,"  said  I,  glad  to  change  the  subject,  "do 
you  think" there '11  be  many  'coons  about,  this  fall?  " 

"About  as  many  as  common,  I  reckon,"  he  an- 
swered. "  What  do  you  want  to  know  fur?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  go  out  'coon-hunting,"  I  said  ;  "  that's 
something  I  have  never  tried." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  don't  s'pose  your  goin'  will 
make  much  difference  in  the  number  of  'em,  but,  what's 
the  good  uv  it?  You'd  better  go  'possum-huntin'. 
You  kin  eat  a  'possum." 

"  Don't  you  ever  eat  'coons?  "  I  asked. 

"Eat  'coons!"  he  exclaimed,  with  contempt. 
"Why,  there  isn't  a  nigger  in  this  county'd  eat  a 
'coon.  They  aint  fit  to  eat." 

"I  should  think  they'd  be  as  good  as  'possums," 
said  I.  "  They  feed  on  pretty  much  the  same  things, 
don't  they?" 

"  Well,  there  aint  much  difference,  that  way ;  but  a 


76  THAT  SAME  OLD   'COON. 

'possum's  a  mighty  different  thing  from  a  'coon,  when 
ye  come  to  eat  him.  A  'possum's  more  like  a  kind  o3 
tree-pig.  An'  when  he's  cooked,  he's  sweeter  than 
any  suckin'-pig  you  ever  see.  But  a  'coon's  more  like 
a  cat.  Who'd  eat  cats?" 

I  was  about  to  relate  some  city  sausage  stories,  but 
I  refrained. 

"To  be  sure,"  continued  Martin,  "there's  Col. 
Tibbs,  who  says  he's  eat  'coon-meat,  and  liked  it  fust- 
rate  ;  but  then  ag'in,  he  says  frogs  is  good  to  eat,  so 
ye  see  there's  no  dependin'  on  what  people  say.  Now, 
I  know  what  I'm  a-talkin'  about ;  'coons  aint  fit  fur 
human  bein's  to  eat." 

4  What  makes  you  hunt  'em,  then?  "  I  asked. 

"Hunt  'em  fur  fun,"  said  the  old  fellow,  striking 
a  lucifer  match  under  his  chair,  to  re-light  his  pipe. 
"  Ef  ye  talk  about  vittles,  that's  one  thing ;  an'  ef  ye 
talk  about  fun,  that's  another  thing.  An'  I  don't 
know  now  whether  you'd  think  it  was  fun.  I  kinder 
think  you  wouldn't.  I  reckon  it'd  seem  like  pretty 
hard  work  to  you." 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  I  said;  "there  are  many 
things  that  would  be  hard  work  to  me,  that  would  be 
nothing  but  sport  to  an  old  hunter  like  you." 

"You're  right,  there,  sir.  You  never  spoke  truer 
than  that  in  your  life.  There's  no  man  inside  o'  six 
counties  that's  hunted  more'n  I  have.  I've  been  at 
it  ever  sence  I  was  a  youngster ;  an'  I've  got  a  lot  o' 
fun  out  uv  it,  —  more  fun  than  any  thing  else,  fur  that 
matter.  You  see,  afore  the  war,  people  used  to  go 
huntin'  more  for  real  sport  than  they  do  now.  An' 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  11 

'twa'n't  because  there  was  more  game  in  this  country 
then  than  there  is  now,  fur  there  wa'n't,  —  not  half  as 
much.  There's  more  game  in  Virginny  now  than 
there's  been  any  time  this  fifty  years." 

I  expressed  my  surprise  at  this  statement,  and  he 
continued : 

"•It  all  stands  to  reason,  plain  enough.  Ef  you 
don't  kill  them  wild  critters  off,  they'll  jist  breed  and 
breed,  till  the  whole  country  gits  full  uv  'em.  An' 
nobody  had  no  time  to  hunt  'em  durin'  the  war,  —  we 
was  busy  huntin'  different  game  then,  and  sometimes 
we  was  hunted  ourselves ;  an'  since  then  the  most  uv 
us  has  had  to  knuckle  down  to  work,  —  no  time  for 
huntin'  when  you've  got  to  do  your  own  hoein'  and 
ploughin',  —  or,  at  least,  a  big  part  uv  it.  An'  I  tell 
ye  that  back  there  in  the  mountains  there's  lots  o'  deer 
where  nobody  livin'  about  here  ever  saw  'em  before, 
and  as  fur  turkeys,  and  'coons,  and  'possums,  there's 
more  an'  more  uv'  em  ev'ry  year,  but  as  fur  beavers,  — 
them  confounded  chills-and-fever  rep-tyles,  —  there's 
jist  millions  uv  'em,  more  or  less." 

"  Do  beavers  have  chills  and  fever?  "  I  asked  won- 
deringly. 

u  No,"  said  he,  "  I  wish  they  did.  But  they  give  it 
to  folks.  There  aint  nothin'  on  earth  that's  raised  the 
price  o'  quinine  in  this  country  like  them  beavers.  Ye 
see,  they've  j'ist  had  the'r  own  way  now,  pretty  much 
ever  sence  the  war  broke  out,  and  they've  gone  to 
work  and  built  dams  across  pretty  nigh  all  the  cricks 
we  got,  and  that  floods  the  bottom-lands,  uv  course- 
and  makes  ma'shes  and  swamps,  where  they  used  tc 


78  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

be  fust-rate  corn-land.  Why,  I  tell  ye,  sir,  down  here 
on  Colt's  Creek  there's  a  beaver-dam  a  quarter  uv  a 
mile  long,  an'  the  water's  backed  up  all  over  every 
thing.  Aint  that  enough  to  give  a  wLole  county  the 
chills?  An'  it  does  it  too.  Ef  the  people'd  all  go 
and  sit  on  that  there  dam,  they'd  shake  it  down. 
I  tell  ye,  sir,  the  war  give  us,  in  this  country,  a 
good  many  things  we  didn't  want,  and  among  'em's 
chills.  Before  the  war,  nobody  never  heard  of  sich 
things  as  chills  round  about  hyar.  'Taint  on'y  the 
beavers,  nuther.  When  ye  can't  afford  to  hire  more'n 
three  or  four  niggers  to  work  a  big  farm,  'taint  likely 
ye  kin  do  no  ditchin',  and  all  the  branches  and  the 
ditches  in  the  bottom-lands  fills  up,  an'  a  feller's  best 
corn-fields  is  pretty  much  all  swamp,  and  his  family 
has  to  live  on  quinine." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  pay  well  to  hunt  and  trap 
these  beavers,"  I  remarked. 

"  Well,  so  it  does,  sometimes,"  said  Martin  ;  "  but 
half  the  people  aint  got  no  time.  Now  it's  different 
with  me,  because  I'm  not  a-farmin'.  An'  then  it  aint 
everybody  that  kin  git  'em.  It  takes  a  kind  o'  eddica- 
tion  to  hunt  beaver.  But  you  was  a-askin'  about 
'coons." 

"  Yes,"  I  said.     "  I'd  like  to  go  'coon-hunting." 

"There's  lots  o'  fun  in  it,"  said  he,  knocking  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  putting  up  his  cowhide  boots 
on  the  top  of  the  porch-railing  in  front  of  him. 

"About  two  or  three  years  afore  the  war,  I  went 
out  on  a  'coon-hunt,  which  was  the  liveliest  hunt  I 
ever  see  in  all  my  life.  I  never  had  sich  a  good  hunt 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  79 

afore,  nur  never  sence.  I  was  a-livin'  over  in  Pow- 
hattan,  and  the  'coon  was  Haskiuses  'coon.  They 
called  him  Haskinses  'coon,  because  he  was  'most 
allus  seen  sc  aewhere  on  ole  Tom  Haskinses  farm. 
Tom's  dead  now,  an'  so  is  the  'coon ;  but  the  farm's 
thar,  an'  I'm  here,  so  ye  kin  b'lieve  this  story,  jist  as 
ef  it  was  printed  on  paper.  It  was  the  most  confound- 
edest  queer  'coon  anybody  ever  see  in  all  this  whole 
world.  An'  the  queerness  was  this :  it  hadn't  no 
stripes  to  its  tail.  Now  ye  needn't  say  to  me  that 
no  'coon  was  ever  that  way,  fur  this  'coon  was,  an'  that 
settles  it.  All  'coons  has  four  or  five  brown  stripes 
a-runnin'  roun'  their  tails,  —  all  'cept  this  one  'coon 
uv  Haskinses.  An'  what's  more,  this  was  the  sava- 
gest  'coon  anybody  ever  did  see  in  this  whole  world. 
That's  what  sot  everybody  huutin'  him  ;  fur  the  sav- 
ager  a  coon  is,  an'  the  more  grit  ther'  is  in  him,  the 
more's  the  fun  when  he  comes  to  fight  the  dogs  —  fur 
that's  whar  the  fun  comes  in.  An'  ther'  is  'coons  as 
kin  lick  a  whole  pack  o'  dogs,  an'  git  off;  and  this  is 
jist  what  Haskiuses  'coon  did,  lots  o'  times.  I  b'lieve 
every  nigger  in  the  county,  an'  pretty  much  half  the 
white  men,  had  been  out  huntin'  that  'coon,  and  they'd 
never  got  him  }*it.  Ye  see  he  was  so  derned  cuunin' 
an'  gritty,  that  when  ye  cut  his  tree  down,  he'd  jist 
go  through  the  clogs  like  a  wasp  in  a  Sunday  school, 
an'  git  away,  as  I  tell  ye.  He  must  a'  had  teeth  more'n 
an  inch  long,  and  he  had  a  mighty  tough  bite  to  him. 
Quick,  too,  as  a  black-snake.  Well,  they  never  got 
him,  no  how  ;  but  he  was  often  seed,  fur  he'd  even  let 
a  feller  as  hadn't  a  gun  with  him  git  a  look  at  him  in 


BO  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

the  day-time,  which  is  contrary  to  the  natur'  of  a  'coon, 
which  keeps  dark  all  day  an  on'y  comes  out  arter  dark. 
But  this  here  'coon  o'  Haskinses  was  different  from 
any  'coon  anybody  ever  see  in  all  this  world.  Some- 
times }Te'd  see  him  a-settin'  down  by  a  branch,  a-dip- 
pin'  his  food  inter  the  water  every  time  he  took  a  bite, 
which  is  the  natur'  of  a  coon ;  but  if  ye  put  yer  hand 
inter  yer  pocket  fur  so  much  as  a  pocket-pistol,  he'd 
skoot  afore  ye  could  wink. 

"  Well,  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  go  out  after  Has- 
kinses 'coon,  and  I  got  up  a  huntin'  party.  'Twa'n't 
no  trouble  to  do  that.  In  them  days  ye  could  git  up 
a  huntin'  party  easier  than  any  thing  else  in  this  whole 
world.  All  ye  had  to  do  was  to  let  the  people  know, 
an'  the}T'd  be  thar,  black  an'  white.  Why,  I  tell  ye, 
sir,  they  used  to  go  fox-huntin'  a  lot  in  them  days,  an' 
there  wasn't  half  as  many  foxes  as  ther'  is  now, 
nuther.  If  a  feller  woke  up  bright  an'  early,  an'  felt 
like  fox-huntin',  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  git  on  his 
horse,  and  take  his  dogs  and  his  horn,  and  ride  off  to 
his  nex'  neighbor's,  an'  holler.  An'  up'd  jump  the 
nex'  feller,  and  git  on  his  horse,  and  take  his  dogs, 
and  them  two'd  ride  off  to  the  nex'  farm  an'  holler, 
an'  keep  that  up  till  ther'  was  a  lot  uv  'em,  with  the'r 
hounds,  and  awajr  they'd  go,  tip-it- ty-crack,  after  the 
fox  an'  the  hounds  —  fur  it  didn't  take  long  for  them 
dogs  to  scar'  up  a  fox.  An'  they'd  keep  it  up,  too, 
like  good  fellers.  Ther'  was  a  party  uv  'em,  once, 
started  out  of  a  Friday  mornin',  and  the'r  fox,  which 
was  a  red  fox  (fur  a  gray  fox  aint  no  good  fur  a  long 
run)  took  'em  clean  over  into  Albemarle,  and  none  uv 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  81 

'em  didn't  get  back  home  till  arter  dark,  Saturday. 
That  was  the  way  we  used  to  hunt. 

"  "Well,  I  got  up  my  party,  and  we  went  out  arter 
Haskinses  'coon.  We  started  out  pretty  soon  arter 
supper.  Ole  Tom  Haskins  himself  was  along,  because, 
uv  course,  he  wanted  to  see  his  'coon  killed ;  an'  ther' 
was  a  lot  of  other  fellers  that  you  wouldn't  know  ef  I 
was  to  tell  ye  the'r  names.  Ye  see,  it  was  'way  down 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  county  that  I  was  a-livin'  then. 
An'  ther'  was  about  a  dozen  niggers  with  axes,  an' 
five  or  six  little  black  boys  to  carry  light-wood.  There 
was  no  less  than  thirteen  dogs,  all  'coon-hunters. 

"Ye  see,  the  'coon-dog  is  sometimes  a  hound,  an' 
sometimes  he  isn't.  It  takes  a  right  smart  dog  to 
hunt  a  'coon ;  and  sometimes  ye  kin  train  a  dog,  thet 
aint  a  reg'lar  huntin'-dog,  to  be  a  fust-rate  'coon-dog, 
pertickerleiiy  when  the  fightin'  comes  in.  To  be  sure, 
ye  want  a  dog  with  a  good  nose  to  him  to  roller  up  a 
'coon  ;  but  ye  want  fellers  with  good  jaws  and  teeth, 
and  plenty  of  grit,  too.  We  had  thirteen  of  the  best 
'coon-dogs  in  the  whole  world,  an'  that  was  enough 
fur  any  one  'coon,  I  say ;  though  Haskinses  'coon  was 
a  pertickerler  kind  of  a  'coon,  as  I  tell  ye. 

4 '  Pretty  soon  arter  we  got  inter  Haskinses  oak 
woods,  jist  back  o'  the  house,  the  dogs  got  on  the 
track  uv  a  'coon,  an'  after  'em  we  all  went,  as  hard  as 
we  could  skoot.  Uv  course  we  didn't  know  that  it 
was  Haskinses  'coon  we  was  arter ;  but  we  made  up 
our  minds,  afore  we  started,  thet  when  we  killed  a. 
'coon  and  found  it  wasn't  Haskinses  'coon,  we'd  jist 
keep  on  till  we  did  find  him.  We  didn't  'spect  to 


82  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

have  much  trouble  a-findin'  him,  fur  we  know'd  pretty 
much  whar  he  lived,  and  we  went  right  thar.  Taint 
often  anybody  hunts  fur  one  pertickerler  'coon ;  but 
that  was  the  matter  this  time,  as  I  tell  ye." 

It  was  evident  from  the  business-like  way  in  which 
Martin  Heiskill  started  into  this  story,  that  he  wouldn't 
get  home  in  time  to  have  his  fish  cooked  for  supper, 
but  that  was  not  my  affair.  It  was  not  every  day  that 
the  old  fellow  chose  to  talk,  and  I  was  glad  enough  to 
have  him  go  on  as  long  as  he  would. 

"As  I  tell  ye,"  continued  Martin,  looking  steadily 
over  the  toe  of  one  of  his  boots,  as  if  taking  a  long 
aim  at  some  distant  turkey,  "we  put  off,  hot  and 
heavy,  arter  that  ar  'coon,  and  hard  work  it  was  too. 
The  dogs  took  us  down  through  the  very  stickeryest 
part  of  the  woods,  and  then  down  the  holler  by  the 
edge  of  Lumley's  mill-pond,  —  whar  no  human  bein' 
in  this  world  ever  walked  or  run  afore,  I  truly  b'lieve, 
fur  it  was  the  meanest  travellin'  groun'  I  ever  see,  —  and 
then  back  inter  the  woods  ag'in.  But  'twa'n't  long  afore 
we  came  up  to  the  dogs  a-barkin'  and  hovvlin'  around 
a  big  chestnut-oak  about  three  foot  through,  an'  we 
knew  we  had  him.  That  is,  ef  it  wa'n't  Haskinses 
'coon.  Ef  it  was  his  'coon,  may  be  we  had  him,  and 
may  be  we  hadn't.  The  boys  lighted  up  their  light- 
wood  torches,  and  two  niggers  with  axes  bent  to  work 
at  the  tree.  And  them  as  wasn't  'choppin'  had  as 
much  as  they  could  do  to  keep  the  dogs  back  out  o' 
the  way  o'  the  axes. 

"  The  dogs  they  was  jist  goin'  on  as  ef  they  was 
mad,  and  ole  Uncle  Pete  Williams  —  he  was  the  one 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  83 

thet  was  a-holdin'  on  to  Chink,  the  big  dog  —  thnt 
dog's  name  was  Chinkerpin,  an'  he  was  the  best 
'coon-dog  in  the  whole  world,  I  reckon.  He  was  a 
big  hound,  brown  an'  black,  an'  he  was  the  on'y  dog 
in  thet  pack  thet  had  never  had  a  fight  with  Haskinses 
'coon.  They  fetched  him  over  from  Cumberland, 
a-purpose  for  this  hunt.  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  ole  Pete, 
says  he,  'Thar  aint  no  mistook  dis  time,  Mahsr  Tom, 
now  I  tell  3Tou.  Dese  yar  dogs  knows  well  'nuf  dat 
dat  'coon's  Mahsr  Tom's  'coon,  an'  dey  tell  Chink  too, 
fur  he's  a-doin'  de  debbil's  own  pullin'  dis  time.'  An' 
I  reckon  Uncle  Pete  was  'bout  right,  fur  I  thought  the 
dog  ud  pull  him  off  his  legs  afore  he  got  through. 

u  Pretty  soon  the  niggers  hollered  fur  to  stan'  from 
under,  an'  down  came  the  chestnut-oak  with  the  big 
smash,  an'  then  ev'ry  dog  an'  man  an'  nigger  made 
one  skoot  fur  that  tree.  But  they  couldn't  see  no 
'coon,  fur  he  was  in  a  hole  'bout  half  way  up  the 
trunk  ;  an'  then  there  was  another  high  ole  time  keepin* 
back  the  dogs  till  the  fellers  with  axes  cut  him  out. 
It  didn't  take  long  to  do  that.  The  tree  was  a  kind  o' 
rotten  up  thar,  and  afore  I  know'd  it,  out  hopped  the 
'coon ;  and  then  in  less  then  half  a  shake,  there  was 
sich  a  fight  as  you  never  see  in  all  this  world. 

4 'At  first,  it  'peared  like  it  was  a  blamed  mean 
thing  to  let  thirteen  dogs  fight  one  'coon  ;  but  pretty 
soon  I  thought  it  was  a  little  too  bad  to  have  on'y 
thirteen  dogs  fur  sich  a  fiery  savage  beast  as  that  there 
'coon  was.  He  jist  laid  down  on  his  back  an'  buzzed 
around  like  a  coffee-mill,  an'  whenever  a  dog  got  a 
snap  at  him,  he  got  the  'coon's  teeth  inter  him  quick 


84  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

as  lightnin'.  Ther'  was  too  many  dogs  in  that  fight, 
an'  'twa'n't  long  before  some  uv  'em  found  that  out, 
and  got  out  o'  the  muss.  An'  it  was  some  o'  the  dogs 
thet  had  the  best  chance  at  the  'coon  thet  left  fust. 

"  Afore  long,  though,  old  Chink,  who'd  a  been 
a-watchin'  his  chance,  he  got  a  good  grip  on  that 
'coon,  an'  that  was  the  end  of  him.  He  jist  throw'd 
up  his  hand. 

"  The  minute  I  seed  the  fight  was  over.  I  rushed  in 
an'  grabbed  that  'coon,  an'  like  to  got  grabbed  myself, 
too,  in  doin'  it,  'specially  by  Chink,  who  didn't  know 
nie.  One  o'  the  bo}*s  brought  a  light-wood  torch  so's 
we  could  see  the  little  beast. 

''Well,  'twa'n't  Haskinses  'coon.  He  had  rings 
round  his  tail,  jist  as  reg'lar  as  ef  he  was  the  feller 
that  set  the  fashion.  So  ther'  was  more  'coou-hunt- 
in'  to  be  done  that  night.  But  ther'  wa'n't  nobody 
that  objected  to  that,  fur  wre  were  jist  gittin'  inter  the 
fun  o'  the  thing.  An'  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wasn't 
a-goin'  home  without  the  tail  off  er  Haskinses  'coon. 

"I  disrernember  now  whether  the  nex'  thing  we 
killed  was  a  'coon  or  a  'possum.  It's  a  long  time  ago, 
and  I've  been  on  lots  o'  hunts  since  thet ;  but  the  main 
p'ints  o'  this  hunt  I  aint  likely  to  furgit,  fur,  as  I  tell 
ye,  this  was  the  liveliest  'coon-hunt  I  ever  went  out  on. 

u  Ef  it  was  a  'possum  we  got  next,  ther'  wasn't 
much  fun  about  it,  fur  a  'possum's  not  a  game  beast. 
Ther's  no  fight  in  him,  though  his  meat's  better.  When 
ye  tree  a  'possum  an'  cut  down  the  tree,  an'  cut  him 
out  uv  his  hole,  ef  he's  in  one,  he  jist  keels  over  an' 
makes  b'lieve  he's  dead,  though  that's  jinerally  no  use 


THAT  SAME   OLD  'COON.  85 

at  all,  fur  he's  real  dead  in  a  minute,  and  it's  hardly 
wuth  while  fur  him  to  take  the  trouble  uv  puttin'  on 
the  sham.  Sometimes  a  'possum'll  hang  by  his  tail 
to  the  limb  of  a  tree,  an'  ye  kin  knock  him  down  with- 
out cuttin'  the  tree  down.  He's  not  a  game  beast,  as 
I  tell  ye.  But  they  aint  allus  killed  on  the  spot.  I've 
seed  niggers  take  a  long  saplin'  an'  make  a  little  split 
in  it  about  the  middle  of  the  pole,  an'  stick  the  end  of 
a  'possum's  long  rat- tail  through  the  split  an'  carry 
him  home.  I've  seed  two  niggers  carryin'  a  pole  that 
a-way,  one  at  each  end,  with  two  or  three  'possums 
a-haugin'  frum  it.  They  take  'em  home  and  fatten 
'em.  I  hate  a  'possum,  principally  fur  his  tail.  Ef  it 
was  curled  up  short  an'  had  a  knot  in  it,  it  would  be 
more  like  a  pig's  tail,  an'  then  it  would  seem  as  ef  the 
thing  was  meant  to  eat.  But  the  way  they  have  it, 
it's  like  nothing  in  the  whole  world  but  a  rat's  tail. 

44  So,  as  I  tell  ye,  ef  thet  was  a  'possum  thet  we 
treed  nex',  ther'  wasn't  no  fight,  an'  some  of  the  nig- 
gers got  some  meat.  But  after  that  —  I  remember  it 
was  about  the  middle  o'  the  night  —  we  got  off  again, 
this  time  really  arter  Haskinses  'coon.  I  was  dead 
sure  of  it.  The  dogs  went  diff'rent,  too.  They  wras 
jist  full  o'  fire  an'  blood,  an' run  ahead  like  as  ef  they 
was  mad.  They  know'd  they  wasn't  on  the  track  of 
no  common  'coon,  this  time.  As  fur  all  uv  us  men, 
black  an'  white,  we  jist  got  up  an'  got  arter  them  dogs, 
an'  some  o'  the  little  fellers  got  stuck  in  a  swamp, 
down  by  a  branch  that  runs  out  o'  Haskinses  woods 
into  Widder  Thorp's  corn-field  ;  but  we  didn't  stop 
fur  nuthin',  an'  they  never  ketched  up.  We  kep'  on 


86  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COOJV. 

down  that  branch  an'  through  the  whole  corn-field,  an* 
then  the  dogs  they  took  us  crossways  up  a  hill,  whar 
we  had  to  cross  two  or  three  gullies,  an'  I  like  to  broke 
my  neck  clown  one  uv  'em,  fur  I  was  in  sich  a  blamed 
hurry  that  I  tried  to  jump  across,  an'  the  bank  giv'  way 
on  the  other  side,  as  I  might  'a'  know'd  it  would,  an' 
down  I  come,  backward.  But  I  landed  on  two  niggers 
at  the  bottom  of  the  gully,  an'  that  kinder  broke  my 
fall,  an'  I  was  up  an'  a-goin'  ag'in  afore  you'd  'a' 
know'd  it. 

"  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  we  jist  b'iled  up  that  hill,  an' 
then  we  struck  inter  the  widder's  woods,  which  is  the 
wust  woods  in  the  whole  world,  I  reckon,  fur  runnin' 
through  arter  a  pack  o'  dogs.  The  whole  place  was 
so  growed  up  with  chinkerpin-bushes  and  dog- wood, 
an'  every  other  kind  o'  underbrush  that  a  hog  would 
'a'  sp'iled  his  temper  goin'  through  thar  in  the  day- 
time ;  but  we  jist  r'ared  an'  plunged  through  them 
bushes  right  on  to  the  tails  o'  the  dogs  ;  an'  ef  any  uv 
us  had  had  good  clothes  on,  they'd  'a'  been  tore  off 
our  backs.  But  ole  clothes  won't  tear,  an'  we  didn't 
care  ef  they  did.  The  dogs  had  a  hot  scent,  an'  I  tell 
ye,  we  was  close  on  to  'em  when  they  got  to  the  critter. 
An'  what  d'ye  s'pose  the  critter  was?  It  was  a  dog- 
arned  'possum  in  a  trap  ! 

"  It  was  a  trap  sot  by  ole  Uncle  Enoch  Peters,  that 
lived  on  Widder  Thorp's  farm.  He's  dead  now,  but 
I  remember  him  fust-rate.  He  had  an'  ole  mother 
over  in  Cumberland,  an'  he  was  the  very  oldest  man 
in  this  -country,  an'  I  reckon  in  the  whole  world,  that 
had  a  livin'  mother.  Well,  that  there  sneakin'  'pos- 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'CO ON.  87 

sum  had  gone  snifflin'  along  through  the  corn-field, 
an'  up  that  hill,  an'  along  the  gullies,  and  through 
that  onearthly  woods  to  Uncle  Enoch's  trap,  an'  we'd 
follered  him  as  ef  he'd  had  a  store  order  fur  a  bar'l  o' 
flour  tied  to  his  tail. 

"Well,  he  didn't  last  long,  for  the  dogs  and  the 
niggers,  between  'em,  tore  that  trap  all  to  bits ;  and 
what  become  o'  the  'possum  I  don't  b'lieve  anybod}^ 
knowed,  'cept  it  was  ole  Chink  and  two  or  three  uv  the 
biggest  dogs." 

I  here  asked  if  'coons  were  ever  caught  in  traps. 

"  Certainly  they  is,"  said  Martin.  "I  remember 
the  time  that  ther'  was  a  good  many  'coons  caught  in 
traps.  That  was  in  the  ole  Henry  Clay  'lection  times. 
The  'coon,  he  was  the  Whig  beast.  He  stood  for 
Harry  Clay  and  the  hull  Whig  party.  Ther'  never  was 
a  pole-raisin',  or  a  barbecue,  or  a  speech  meetin',  or  a 
torch-light  percession,  in  the  whole  country,  that  they 
didn't  want  a  live  'coon  to  be  sot  on  a  pole  or  some- 
whar  whar  the  people  could  look  at  him  an'  be  encour- 
aged. But  it  didn't  do  'em  no  good.  Ole  Harry  Clay 
he  went  under,  an'  ye  couldn't  sell  a  'coon  for  a  dime. 

14  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  this  was  a  'possum  in  a  trap, 
and  we  was  all  pretty  mad  and  pretty  tired.  We  got 
out  on  the  edge  o'  the  woods  as  soon  as  we  could,  an' 
thar  was  a  field  o'  corn.  The  corn  had  been  planted 
late  and  the  boys  found  a  lot  o'  roastin'  ears,  though 
they  was  purty  old,  but  we  didn't  care  for  that.  We 
made  a  fire,  an'  roasted  the  corn,  an'  some  o'  the  men 
had  their  '  ticklers  '  along,  —  enough  to  give  us  each 
a  taste,  —  an'  we  lighted  our  pipes  and  sat  down  to 


88  THAT  SAME   OLD   'COOiV. 

take  a  rest  afore  startin'  off  ag'in  arter  Haskinscs 
'coon." 

"  But  I  thought  you  said,"  I  remarked,  "  that  you 
knew  you  were  after  Raskins'  'coon  the  last  time." 

k'  Well,  so  we  did  know  we  was.  But  sometimes 
you  know  things  as  isn't  so.  Didn't  ye  ever  find  that 
out?  It's  so,  anyway,  jist  as  I  tell  ye,"  and  then  he 
continued  his  story : 

"As  we  was  a-settin'  aroun'  the  fire,  a-smokin' 
away,  Uncle  Pete  Williams  —  he  was  the  feller  that 
had  to  hang  on  to  the  big  dog,  Chink,  as  I  tell  ye  — • 
he  come  an'  he  says,  4  Now,  look-a-here,  Mahsr  Tom, 
an'  de  rest  ob  you  all,  don't  ye  bleab  we'd  better  gib 
up  dis  yere  thing  an'  go  home?'  Well,  none  uv  us 
thought  that,  an'  we  told  him  so ;  but  he  kep'  on,  an* 
begun  to  tell  us  we'd  find  ourselves  in  a  heap  o' 
misery,  ef  we  didn't  look  out,  pretty  soon.  Says  he  : 
4  Now,  look-a-here,  Mahsr  Tom,  and  you  all,  you  all 
wouldn!t  a-ketched  me  out  on  this  yere  hunt  ef  I  'a' 
knowed  ye  was  a-gwine  to  hunt  'possums.  'Taint  no 
luck  to  hunt  'possums :  everybody  knows  dat.  De 
debbil  gits  after  a  man  as  will  go  a-chasin'  'possums 
wid  dogs  when  he  kin  cotch  'ein  a  heap  mau  comforta- 
bler  in  a  trap.  'Taint  so  much  cliff  rence  'bout  'coons, 
but  the  debbil  he  takes  care  o'  'possums.  An'  I  spect 
de  debbel  know'd  'bout  dis  yere  hunt,  fur  de  oder 
c-benin'  I  was  a-goin'  down  to  de  rock-spring,  wid  a 
#ourd  to  git  a  drink,  and  dar  on  de  rock,  wid  his  legs 
a-danglin'  down  to  de  water,  sat  de  debbil  hisself 
a-chawin'  green  terbacker!' — *  Green  terbacker?'  says 
I.  *  Why,  Uncle  Pete,  aiut  the  debbil  got  no  better 


THAT  SAME   OLD   'COON.  89 

sense  than  that?' — '  Now,  look-a-here,  Mahsr  Martin,' 
says  he,  '  de  debbil  knows  what  he's  about,  an'  ef  green 
terbacker  was  good  fur  anybody  to  chaw  he  wouldn't 
chaw  it,  an'  he  says  to  me,  "  Uncle  Pete,  been 
a-huntin'  any  'possums?"  An'  says  I,  "No,  Mahsr, 
I  nebber  do  dat."  An'  den  he  look  at  me  awful,  fur  I 
seed  he  didn't  furgit  nothin',  an'  he  was  a-sottin'  dar, 
a-shinen  as  ef  he  was  polished  all  over  wid  shoe- 
blackin',  an'  he  says,  "  Now,  look-a-here,  Uncle  Pete, 
don't  you  eber  do  it ;  an'  w'at's  dat  about  dis  yere 
Baptis'  church  at  de  Cross-roads,  dat  was  sot  afire?  " 
An'  I  tole  him  dat  I  didn't  know  nuffin  'bout  dat  — 
not  one  single  word  in  dis  whole  world.  Den  he  wink, 
an'  he  says,  "  Dem  bruders  in  dat  church  hunt  too 
many  'possums.  Dey  is  allus  a-huntin'  'possums,  an' 
dat's  de  way  dey  lose  der  church.  I  sot  dat  church 
afire  mesef.  D'y'  hear  dat,  Uncle  Pete?  "  An'  I  was 
glad  enough  to  hear  it,  too  ;  for  der  was  bruders  in  dat 
church  clat  said  Teller  Joe  an'  me  sot  it  afire,  cos  we 
wasn't  'lected  trustees,  but  dey  can't  say  dat  now,  fur 
it's  all  plain  as  daylight,  an'  ef  dey  don't  bleab  it,  I 
kin  show  'em  de  berry  gourd  I  tuk  down  to  de  rock- 
spring  when  I  seed  de  debbil.  An'  it  don't  do  to  hunt 
no  more  'possums,  fur  de  debbil' d  jist  as  leab  scratch 
de  end  OK">  his  tail  ag'in  a  white  man's  church  as  ag'in 
a  black  man's  church.' 

"  By  this  time  we  was  all  ready  to  start  ag'in ;  an* 
we  know'd  that  all  Uncle  Pete  wanted  was  to  git  home 
ag'in,  fur  he  was  lazy,  and  was  sich  an  ole  rascal  that 
he  was  afraid  to  go  back  by  himself  in  the  dark  fur 
fear  the  real  debbil'd  gobble  him  up,  an'  so  we  didn't 


90  THAT  SAME   OLD  'COON. 

pay  no  'tention  to  him,  but  jist  started  off  ag'in. 
Ther'  is  niggers  as  b'lieve  the  debbil  gits  after  people 
that  hunt  'possums,  but  Uncle  Pete  never  b'lieved  that 
when  he  was  a-goin'  to  git  the  'possum.  Ther'  wasn't 
no  chance  fur  him  this  night,  but  he  had  to  come  along 
all  the  same,  as  I  tell  ye. 

"  'Twa'n't  half  an  hour  arter  we  started  ag'in  afore 
we  found  a  'coon,  but  'twa'n't  Haskinses  'coon.  We 
was  near  the  crick,  when  the  dogs  got  arter  him,  an' 
inste'd  o'  gittin'  up  a  tree,  he  run  up  inter  the  roots  uv 
a  big  pine  thet  had  been  blown  down,  and  was  a-layin' 
half  in  the  water.  The  brush  was  mighty  thick  jist 
here ;  an'  some  uv  us  thought  it  was  another  'possum, 
an'  we  kep*  back  most  uv  the  dogs,  fur  we  didn't  want 
'em  to  carry  us  along  that  creek-bank  arter  no  'possum. 
But  some  o'  the  niggers,  with  two  or  three  dogs,  pushed 
through  the  bushes,  and  one  feller  clurn  up  inter  the 
roots  uv  the  tree,  an'  out  jumped  Mr.  'Coon.  He 
hadn't  no  chance  to  git  off  any  other  way  than  to  clim' 
down  some  grape-vines  that  was  a-hangin'  from  the 
tree  inter  the  water.  So  he  slips  down  one  o'  them, 
an'  as  he  was  a-hangin'  on  like  a  sailor  a-goiu'  down  a 
rope,  I  got  a  look  at  him  through  the  bushes,  an'  I  see 
plain  enough  by  the  light-wood  torch  thet  he  wa'n't 
Haskinses  'coon.  He  had  the  commonest  kinds  o' 
bands  on  his  tail. 

u  Well,  that  thar  'coon  he  looked  like  he  was  about 
the  biggest  fool  uv  a  coon  in  this  whole  world.  He 
come  down  to  the  water,  as  ef  he  thought  a  dog 
couldn't  swim,  an'  ef  that's  what  he  did  think  he  foun' 
out  his  mistake  as  soon  as  he  teched  the  water,  fur  thar 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  91 

was  a  dog  ready  fur  him.  An'  then  they  had  it  lively, 
an'  the  other  dogs  they  jumped  in,  an'  thar  was  a  purty 
big  splashin'  an'  plungin'  an'  bitin'  in  that  thar  creek ; 
an'  I  was  jist  a-goin  to  push  through  an'  holler  fur  the 
other  fellers  to  come  an'  see  the  fun,  when  that  thar 
'coon  he  got  off !  He  jist  licked  them  dogs  —  the 
meanest  dogs  we  had  along  —  an'  put  fur  the  other 
bank,  an'  that  was  the  end  o'  him.  'Coons  is  a  good 
deal  like  folks  —  it  don't  pay  to  call  none  uv  'em  fools 
till  ye 're  done  seein'  what  they're  up  to. 

"  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  we  was  then  nigh  the  crick  ;  but 
soon  as  we  lef '  the  widder's  woods  we  struck  off  from 
it,  fur  none  uv  us,  'specially  the  niggers,  wanted  to  go 
nigh  'Lijah  Parker's.  Reckon  ye  don't  know  'Lijah 
Parker.  Well,  he  lives  'bout  three  mile  from  here  on 
the  crick ;  an*  he  was  then,  an'  is  now,  jist  the  laziest 
man  in  the  whole  world.  He  had  two  or  three  big  red 
oaks  on  his  place  thet  he  wanted  cut  down,  but  was 
too  durned  lazy  to  do  it ;  an'  he  hadn't  no  money  to  hire 
anybody  to  do  it,  nuther,  an'  he  was  too  stingy  to 
spend  it  ef  he'd  had  it.  So  he  know'd  ther'  was  a-goin 
to  be  a  'coon-hunt  one  night ;  an'  the  evenin'  before  he 
tuk  a  'coon  his  boy'd  caught  in  a  'possum-trap,  an* 
he  put  a  chain  aroun'  its  body,  and  pulled  it  through  his 
woods  to  one  of  his  red  oak  trees.  Then  he  let  the 
'coon  climb  up  a  little  ways,  an'  then  he  jerked  him 
clown  ag'in,  and  piilled  him  over  to  another  tree,  and  so 
on,  till  he'd  let  him  run  up  three  big  trees.  Then  his 
boy  got  a  box,  an'  they  put  the  'coon  in  an*  carried 
him  home.  Uv  course,  when  the  dogs  come  inter  his 
woods  —  an'  he  know'd  they  was  a-goin  to  do  that — • 


92  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

they  got  on  the  scent  o'  this  'coon ;  an'  when  they 
got  to  the  fust  tree,  they  thought  they'd  treed  him,  an' 
the  niggers  cut  down  that  red  oak  in  no  time.  An' 
then'  when  ther'  wa'n't  no  'coon  thar,  they  tracked 
him  to  the  nex'  tree,  an'  so  on  till  the  whole  three  trees 
was  cut  down.  We  wouldn't  'a'  found  out  nuthin' 
about  this  ef  'Lijah's  boy  hadn't  told  on  the  ole  man, 
an'  ye  kin  jist  bet  all  ye 're  wuth  that  ther'  aint  a  man 
in  this  county  that  'u'd  cut  one  o'  his  trees  down  ag'in. 
"  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  we  kep'  clear  o'  Parker's  place, 
an'  we  walked  about  two  mile,  an'  then  we  found  we'd 
gone  clean  around  till  we'd  got  inter  Haskiuses  woods 
ag'in.  We  hadn't  gone  further  inter  the  woods  than 
ye  could  pitch  a  rock  afore  the  dogs  got  on  the  track 
uv  a  'coon,  an'  away  we  all  went  arter  'em.  Even  the 
little  fellers  that  was  stuck  in  the  swamp  away  back 
was  with  us  now,  fur  they  got  out  an'  was  a-pokin' 
home  through  the  woods.  'Twa'u't  long  afore  that 
'coon  was  treed ;  an'  when  we  got  up  an'  looked  at 
the  tree,  we  all  felt  dead  sure  it  was  Haskinses  'coon 
this  time  an'  no  mistake.  Fur  it  was  jist  the  kind 
o'  tree  that  no  'coon  but  that  'coon  would  ever  'a' 
thought  o'climbin'.  Mos'  'coons  and  'possums  shin  it 
up  a  pretty  tall  tree,  to  git  as  fur  awa}-  frum  the  dogs 
as  they  kin,  an'  the  tall  trees  is  often  purty  slim  trees 
an'  easy  cut  down.  But  this  here  'coon  o'  Haskinses 
he  had  more  sense  than  that.  He  jist  skooted  up  the 
thickast  tree  he  could  find.  He  didn't  care  about 
gittin'  up  high.  He  know'd  the  dogs  couldn't  climb 
no  tree  at  all,  an'  that  no  man  or  boy  was  a-comin' 
up  after  him.  So  he  wanted  to  give  'em  the  best  job 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  93 

o'  choppin  he  know'd  how.  Ther'  aint  no  smartei 
critter  than  'coons  in  this  whole  world.  Dogs  aint  no 
circumstance  to  'em.  About  four  or  five  year  ago,  I 
was  a-livin'  with  Biley  Marsh,  over  by  the  Court-house  ; 
an'  his  wife  she  had  a  tame  'coon,  an'  this  little  beast 
was  a  mighty  lot  smarter  than  any  human  bein'  in  the 
house.  Sometimes,  when  he'd  come  it  a  little  too 
heavy  with  his  tricks,  they  used  to  chain  him  up,  but 
he  always  got  loose  and  come  a  humpin'  inter  the 
house  with  a  bit  o'  the  chain  to  his  collar.  D'ye  know 
how  a  'coon  walks?  He  never  comes  straight  ahead 
like  a  Christian,  but  he  humps  up  his  back,  an'  he 
twists  roun'  his  tail,  an'  he  sticks  out  his  head,  crooked 
like,  frum  under  his  ha'r,  an'  he  comes  inter  a  room 
sideways  an'  a  kind  o'  cross,  as  ef  he'd  a-wanted  ter 
stay  out  an'  play  an'  ye'd  made  him  come  in  the 
house  ter  learn  his  lessons. 

41  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  this  'coon  broke  his  chain  ev'ry 
time,  an'  it  was  a  good  thick  dog-chain,  an'  that  puz- 
zled Biley ;  but  one  day  he  saw  the  little  runt  goin' 
aroun'  an'  aroun'  hoppin'  over  his  chain  ev'ry  time, 
till  he  got  an  awful  big  twist  on  his  chain,  an'  then  it 
was  easy  enough  to  strain  on  it  till  a  link  opened.  But 
Rlley  put  a  swivel  on  his  chain,  an'  stopped  that  fun. 
But  they'd  let  him  out  purty  often ;  an'  one  day  he 
squirmed  himself  inter  the  kitchen,  an'  thar  he  see  the 
tea-kittle  a-settin'  by  the  fireplace.  The  lid  was  off, 
an'  ole  'cooney  thought  that  was  jist  the  kind  uv  a 
black  hole  he'd  been  used  to  crawlin'  inter  afore  he 
got  tame.  So  he  crawled  in  an'  curled  himself  up  an' 
went  to  sleep.  Arter  a  while,  in  comes  Aunt  Hannah 


94  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

to  git  supper ;  an'  she  picks  up  the  kittle,  an'  findit 
it  heavy,  thinks  it  was  full  o'  water,  an'  puts  on  the 
lid  an'  hung  it  over  the  fire.  Then  she  clapped  on 
some  light- wood  to  hurry  up  things.  Purty  soon  that 
kittle  begun  to  warm  ;  an'  then,  all  uv  a  sudden,  off 
pops  the  lid,  an'  out  shoots  Mister  'Coon  like  a  rocket. 
An'  ther'  never  was,  in  all  this  whole  world,  sich  a 
frightened  ole  nigger  as  Aunt  Hannah.  She  thought 
it  was  the  debbil,  sure,  an'  she  giv'  a  yell  that  fetched 
ev'ry  man  on  the  place.  That  ere  'coon  had  more 
mischief  in  him  than  any  live  thing  ye  ever  see.  He'd 
pick  pockets,  hide  ev'ry  thing  he  could  find,  an'  steal 
eggs.  He'd  find  an  egg  ef  the  hen  'u'd  sneak  off  an' 
lay  it  at  the  bottom  uv  the  crick.  One  Sunday,  Riley's 
wife  went  to  all-day  preachin'  at  Hornorsville,  an'  she 
put  six  mockin'-birds  she  was  a-raisin'  in  one  cage  ;  an', 
fur  fear  the  coon'  'u'd  git  'em,  she  hung  the  cage  frum 
a  hook  in  the  middle  uv  the  ceilin'  in  the  chamber. 
She  had  to  git  upon  a  chair  to  do  it.  Well,  she  went 
to  preachin',  an'  that  'coon  he  got  inter  the  house  an' 
eat  up  ev'r}'  one  o'  them  mockin'-birds.  Ther'  wasn't 
no  tellin'  'xactly  how  he  done  it ;  but  we  reckoned  he 
got  up  on  the  high  mantel-piece  an'  made  one  big 
jump  from  thar  to  the  cage,  an'  hung  on  till  he  put  his 
paw  through  an'  hauled  out  one  bird.  Then  he  dropped 
an'  eat  that,  an'  made  anuther  jump,  till  they  was  all 
gone.  Anyway,  he  got  all  the  birds,  an'  that  was  the 
last  meal  he  ever  eat. 

u  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  that  'coon  he  got  inter  the  thick- 
est tree  in  the  whole  woods  ;  an'  thar  he  sat  a-peepin* 
at  us  from  a  crotch  that  wasn't  twenty  feet  frum  the 


THAT  SANE  OLD  'COON.  95 

ground.  Young  Charley  Ferris  he  took  a  burnin' 
chunk  that  one  o'  the  boys  had  fetched  along  fruin 
the  fire,  an'  throw'd  it  up  at  him,  'at  we  could  all 
see  him  plain.  He  was  Haskinses  'coon,  sure.  There 
wasn't  a  stripe  on  his  tail.  Arter  that,  the  niggers 
jist  made  them  axes  swing,  I  tell  ye.  They  had  a  big 
job  afore  'em  ;  but  they  took  turns  at  it,  an'  didn't 
waste  no  time.  An'  the  rest  uv  us  we  got  the  dogs 
ready.  We  wasn't  a-goin'  to  let  this  'coon  off  this 
here  time.  No,  sir !  Ther'  was  too  many  dogs,  as  1 
tell  ye,  an'  we  had  four  or  five  uv  the  clumsiest  uv  'em 
tuk  a  little  way  off,  with  boys  to  hole  'em  ;  an'  the 
other  dogs  an'  the  hounds,  'specially  old  Chink,  was 
held  ready  to  tackle  the  'coon  when  the  time  come. 
An'  we  had  to  be  mighty  sharp  about  this,  too,  fur  we 
all  saw  that  that  thar  'coon  was  a-goin'  to  put  the  min- 
ute the  tree  come  down.  He  wasn't  goin'  to  git  in  a 
hole  an'  be  cut  out.  Ther'  didn't  'pear  to  be  any  hole, 
an'  he  didn't  want  none.  All  he  wanted  was  a  good 
thick  tree  an'  a  crotch  to  set  in  an'  think.  That  was 
what  he  was  a-doin'.  He  was  cunjeriu'  up  some  trick 
or  other.  We  all  know'd  that,  but  we  jist  made  up 
our  minds  to  be  ready  fur  him ;  an'  though,  as  he  was 
Haskinses  'coon,  the  odds  was  ag'in  us,  we  was  dead 
sure  we'd  git  him  this  time. 

u  I  thought  that  thar  tree  never  was  a  comin'  down  ; 
but  purty  soon  it  began  to  crack  and  lean,  and  then 
down  she  come.  Ev'ry  dog,  man,  an'  boy,  made  a 
rash  fur  that  crotch,  but  ther'  was  no  coon  thar.  As 
the  tree  come  down  he  seed  how  the  land  lay  ;  and 
ijuicker'n  any  light'in'  in  this  whole  world  he  jist 


96  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COOJNT. 

streaked  the  other  way  to  the  root  o'  the  tree,  giv'  one 
hop  over  the  stump,  an'  was  off.  I  seed  him  do  it, 
an'  the  dogs  see  him,  but  they  wasn't  quick  enough, 
and  couldn't  stop  'emselves  —  they  was  goin'  so  hard 
fur  the  croteh. 

"  Ye  never  did  see  in  all  yer  days  sech  a  mad  crowd 
as  that  thar  crowd  around  that  tree,  but  they  didn't 
stop  none  to  sw'ar.  The  dogs  was  arter  the  'coon, 
an'  arter  him  we  went  too.  He  put  fur  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  which  looked  queer,  fur  a  coon  never  will  go 
out  into  the  open  if  he  kiu  help  it ;  but  the  dogs 
was  so  hot  arter  him  that  he  couldn't  run  fur,  and  he 
was  treed  ag'in  in  less  than  five  minutes.  This  time 
he  was  in  a  tall  hick'ry-tree,  right  on  the  edge  o'  the 
woods  ;  and  it  wa'n't  a  very  thick  tree,  nuther,  so  the 
niggers  they  jist  tuk  ther'  axes,  but  afore  they  could 
make  a  single  crack,  ole  Haskins  he  runs  at  'em  an' 
pushes  'em  away. 

"  t  Don't  ye  touch  that  thar  tree  ! '  he  hollers.  l  That 
hick'ry  marks  my  line ! '  An'  sure  enough,  that  was 
the  tree  with  the  surveyors'  cuts  on  it,  that  marked 
the  place  where  the  line  took  a  corner  that  run  atween 
Haskinses  farm  and  Widder  Thorp's.  He  kuow'd  the 
tree  the  minute  he  seed  it,  an'  so  did  I,  fur  I  carried 
the  chain  for  the  surveyors  when  they  laid  off  the  line  ; 
an'  we  could  all  see  the  cut  they'd  blazed  on  it,  fur  it 
was  fresh  yit,  an'  it  was  gittin'  to  be  daylight  now,  an' 
we  could  see  things  plain. 

"  Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  ev'ry  man  uv  us  jist  r'ared  and 
snorted,  an'  the  dogs  an'  boys  was  madder'n  the  rest 
uv  us,  but  ole  Haskins  he  didn't  give  in.  He  jist 


THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON.  97 

walked  aroun'  that  tree  an'  wouldn't  let  a  nigger  touch 
it.  He  said  he  wanted  to  kill  the  'coon  jist  as  much 
as  anybody,  but  he  wasn't  a-goin  to  have  his  line 
sp'iled,  arter  the  money  he'd  spent,  fur  all  the  'coons 
in  this  whole  world. 

u  Now  did  ye  ever  hear  of  sich  a  cute  trick  as  that? 
That  thar  'coon  he  must  'a'  knowed  that  was  Haskinses 
line-tree,  an'  I  spect  he'd  'a'  made  fur  it  fust,  ef  he'd 
a-knowed  ole  Raskins  was  along.  But  he  didn't  know 
it,  till  he  was  a-settin'  in  the  crotch  uv  the  big  tree 
and  could  look  aroun'  an*  see  who  was  thar.  It 
wouldn't  'a'  been  no  use  fur  him  to  go  for  that  hick'ry 
if  Haskins  hadn't  'a'  bin  thar,  for  he  know'd  well 
enough  it  'u'd  'a'  come  down  sure." 

I  smiled  at  this  statement,  but  Martin  shook  his 
head. 

"  'Twon't  do,"  he  said,  "  to  undervally  the  sense  of 
no  'coon.  How 're  ye  goin  to  tell  what  he  knows  ?  Well, 
as  I  tell  ye,  we  was  jist  gittin'  madder  an'  madder 
when  a  nigger  named  Wash  Webster,  he  run  out  in  the 
field,  —  it  was  purty  light  now,  as  I  tell  ye  —  an'  he 
hollers,  '  O,  Mahsr  Tom  !  Mahsr  Tom  !  Dat  ar  'coon 
he  aint  you  'coon  !  He  got  stripes  to  he  tail !  ' 

"We  all  made  a  rush  out  inter  the  field,  to  try  to 
git  a  look  ;  an'  sure  enough  we  could  see  the  little 
beast  a-settin'  up  in  a  crotch  over  on  that  side,  an'  I 
do  b'lieve  he  knowed  what  we  was  all  a-lookin'  up  fur, 
fur  he  jist  kind  a  lowered  his  tail  out  o'  the  crotch  so's 
we  could  see  it,  an'  thar  it  was,  striped,  jist  like  any 
ether  coon's  tail." 

"  And  you  were  so  positively  sure  this  time,  that  it 


98  THAT  SAME  OLD  'COON. 

was  Haskins'  'coon,"  I  said.  "  Why,  you  saw,  when 
the  man  threw  the  blazing  chunk  into  the  big  tree,  that 
it  had  no  bands  on  its  tail." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Martin  ;  "  but  ther'  aint  no  man 
that  kin  see  'xactly  straight  uv  a  dark  mornin',  with 
no  light  but  a  flyin'  chunk,  and  'specially  when  he 
wants  to  see  somethin'  that  isn't  thar.  An'  as  to  bein' 
certain  about  that  'coon,  I  jist  tell  ye  that  ther '3 
nothin'  a  man's  more  like  to  be  mistook  about,  than  a 
thing  he  knows  fur  dead  sure. 

"Well,  as  I  tell  ye,  when  we  seed  that  that  thar 
'coon  wa'n't  Haskinses  'coon,  arter  all,  an'  that  we 
couldn't  git  him  out  er  that  tree  as  long  as  the  ole  man 
was  thar,  we  jist  give  up  and  put  across  the  field  for 
Haskinses  house,  whar  we  was  a-goin'  to  git  break- 
fus'.  Some  of  the  boys  and  the  dogs  staid  aroun'  the 
tree,  but  ole  Haskins  he  ordered  'em  off  an'  wouldn't 
let  nobody  stay  thar,  though  they  had  a  mighty 
stretchin'  time  gittin'  the  dogs  away." 

u  It  seems  to  me,"  said  I,  "  that  there  wasn't  much 
profit  in  that  hunt." 

fc'  Well,"  said  Martin,  putting  his  pipe  in  his  pocket, 
and  feeling  under  his  chair  for  his  string  of  fish,  which 
must  have  been  pretty  dry  and  stiff  by  this  time,  "  the 
fun  in  a  'coon-hunt  aint  so  much  in  gittin'  the  'coon,  as 
goin'  arter  him  —  which  is  purty  much  the  same  in  a 
good  many  other  things,  as  I  tell  ye." 

And  he  took  up  his  fish  and  departed. 


HIS  WIFE'S  DECEASED  SISTER. 


IT  is  now  five  years  since  an  event  occurred  which 
so  colored  my  life,  or  rather  so  changed  some  of 
its  original  colors,  that  I  have  thought  it  well  to  write 
an  account  of  it,  deeming  that  its  lessons  may  be  of 
advantage  to  persons  whose  situations  'in  life  are  simi- 
lar to  my  own. 

When  I  was  quite  a  young  man  I  adopted  litera- 
ture as  a  profession  ;  and  having  passed  through  the 
necessary  preparatory  grades,  I  found  myself,  after  a 
good  many  years  of  hard,  and  often  unremunerative 
work,  in  possession  of  what  might  be  called  a  fair 
literary  practice.  My  articles,  grave,  gay,  practical, 
or  fanciful,  had  come  to  be  considered  with  a  favor 
by  the  editors  of  the  various  periodicals  for  which  I 
wrote,  on  which  I  found  in  time  I  could  rely  with  a 
very  comfortable  certainty.  My  productions  created 
no  enthusiasm  in  the  reading  public  ;  they  gave  me  no 
great  reputation  or  very  valuable  pecuniary  return  ; 
but  they  were  always  accepted,  and  my  receipts  from 
them,  at  the  time  to  which  1  have  referred,  were  as 
regular  and  reliable  as  a  salary,  and  quite  sufficient 
to  give  me  more  than  a  comfortable  support. 


100  HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER. 

It  was  at  this  time  I  married.  I  had  been  engaged 
for  more  than  a  year,  but  had  not  been  willing  to  as- 
sume the  support  of  a  wife  until  I  felt  that  my  pecu- 
niary position  was  so  assured  that  I  could  do  so  with 
full  satisfaction  to  my  own  conscience.  There  was 
now  no  doubt  in  regard  to  this  position,  either  in  tnv 
mind  or  in  that  of  my  wife.  I  worked  with  great 
steadiness  and  regularity ;  I  knew  exactly  where  to 
place  the  productions  of  my  pen,  and  could  calculate, 
with  a  fair  degree  of  accuracy,  the  sums  I  should 
receive  for  them.  We  were  by  no  means  rich ;  but 
we  had  enough,  and  were  thoroughly  satisfied  and 
content. 

Those  of  my  readers  who  are  married  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  remembering  the  peculiar  ecstasy  of  the 
first  weeks  of  their  wedded  life.  It  is  then  that  the 
flowers  of  this  world  bloom  brightest ;  that  its  sun  is 
the  most  genial ;  that  its  clouds  are  the  scarcest ;  that 
its  fruit  is  the  most  delicious  ;  that  the  air  is  the  most 
balmy ;  that  its  cigars  are  of  the  highest  flavor ;  that 
the  warmth  and  radiance  of  early  matrimonial  felicity 
so  rarefies  the  intellectual  atmosphere,  that  the  soul 
mounts  higher,  and  enjoys  a  wider  prospect,  than  ever 
before. 

These  experiences  were  mine.  The  plain  claret  of 
my  mind  was  changed  to  sparkling  champagne,  and 
at  the  very  height  of  its  effervescence  I  wrote  a  story. 
The  happy  thought  that  then  struck  me  for  a  tale  was 
of  a  very  peculiar  character ;  and  it  interested  me  so 
much  that  I  went  to  work  at  it  with  great  delight  and 
enthusiasm,  and  finished  it  in  a  comparatively  short 


HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SIS  TEE.  101 

time.  The  title  of  the  story  was  "  His  Wife's  De- 
ceased Sister;"  and  when  I  read  it  to  Hypatia  she 
was  delighted  with  it,  and  at  times  was  so  affected  by 
its  pathos  that  her  uncontrollable  emotion  caused  a 
sympathetic  dimness  in  my  eyes,  which  prevented  my 
seeing  the  words  I  had  written.  When  the  reading  was 
ended,  and  my  wife  had  dried  her  eyes,  she  turned  to 
me  and  said,  "  This  story  will  make  your  fortune. 
There  has  been  nothing  so  pathetic  since  Lamartine's 
4  History  of  a  Servant-Girl.'  " 

As  soon  as  possible  the  next  day  I  sent  my  story 
to  the  editor  of  the  periodical  for  which  I  wrote  most 
frequently,  and  in  which  my  best  productions  gener- 
ally appeared.  In  a  few  days  T  had  a  letter  from  the 
editor,  in  which  he  praised  my  story  as  he  had  never 
before  praised  any  thing  from  my  pan.  It  had  inter- 
ested and  charmed,  he  said,  not  only  himself,  but  all 
his  associates  in  the  office.  Even  old  Gibson,  who 
never  cared  to  read  any  thing  until  it  was  in  proof, 
and  who  never  praised  any  thing  which  had  not  a  joke 
in  it,  was  induced  by  the  example  of  the  others  to 
read  this  manuscript,  and  shed,  as  he  asserted,  the 
first  tears  that  had  come  from  his  eyes  since  his 
final  paternal  castigation  some  forty  years  before. 
The  story  would  appear,  the  editor  assured  me,  as 
soon  as  he  could  possibly  find  room  for  it. 

If  any  thing  could  make  our  skies  more  genial,  our 
flowers  brighter,  and  the  flavor  of  our  fruit  and  cigars 
more  delicious,  it  was  a  letter  like  this.  And  when,  in 
a  very  short  time,  the  story  was  published,  we  found 
that  the  reading  public  was  inclined  to  receive  it  with 


102          &IS   WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER. 

as  much  sympathetic  interest  and  favor  as  had  been 
shown  to  it  by  the  editors.  My  personal  friends  soon 
began  to  express  enthusiastic  opinions  upon  it.  It  was 
highly  praised  in  many  of  the  leading  newspapers ; 
and,  altogether,  it  was  a  great  literary  success.  I  am 
not  inclined  to  be  vain  of  my  writings,  and,  in  general, 
my  wife  tells  me,  think  too  little  of  them ;  but  I  did 
feel  a  good  deal  of  pride  and  satisfaction  in  the  suc- 
cess of  "  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister."  If  it  did  not 
make  my  fortune,  as  my  wife  asserted  that  it  would,  it 
certainly  would  help  me  very  much  in  my  literary 
career. 

In  less  than  a  month  from  the  writing  of  this  story, 
something  very  unusual  and  unexpected  happened  to 
me.  A  manuscript  was  returned  by  the  editor  of  the 
periodical  in  which  "  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister"  had 
appeared.  "  It  is  a  good  story,"  he  wrote,  "  but  not 
equal  to  what  you  have  just  done.  You  have  made  a 
great  hit ;  and  it  would  not  do  to  interfere  with  the  rep- 
utation you  have  gained,  by  publishing  any  thing  infe- 
rior to  '  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister,'  which  has  had 
such  a  deserved  success." 

I  was  so  unaccustomed  to  having  my  work  thrown 
back  on  my  hands,  that  I  think  I  must  have  turned  a 
little  pale  when  I  read  the  letter.  I  said  nothing  of 
the  matter  to  my  wife,  for  it  would  be  foolish  to  drop 
such  grains  of  sand  as  this  into  the  smoothly  oiled  ma- 
chinery of  our  domestic  felicity ;  but  I  immediately 
sent  the  story  to  another  editor.  I  am  not  able  to  ex- 
press the  astonishment  I  felt,  when,  in  the  course  of  a 
week,  it  was  sent  back  to  me.  The  tone  of  the  note 


II IS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SIKTEIt.  103 

Accompanying  it  indicated  a  somewhat  injured  feeling 
on  the  part  of  the  editor.  "  I  am  reluctant,"  he  said, 
1 '  to  decline  a  manuscript  from  you  ;  but  you  know  very 
well  that  if  you  sent  me  any  thing  like  '  His  Wife's 
Deceased  Sister  '  it  would  be  most  promptly  accepted." 

I  now  felt  obliged  to  speak  of  the  affair  to  my  wife, 
who  was  quite  as  much  surprised,  though,  perhaps,  not 
quite  as  much  shocked,  as  I  had  been. 

"  Let  us  read  the  story  again,"  she  said,  "  and  see 
what  is  the  matter  with  it."  When  we  had  finished 
its  perusal,  Hypatia  remarked  :  "  It  is  quite  as  good  as 
many  of  the  stories  you  have  had  printed,  and  I  think 
it  very  interesting ;  although,  of  course,  it  is  not  equal 
to  '  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister.'  " 

4 'Of  course  not,"  said  I,  tkthat  was  an  inspiration 
that  I  cannot  expect  every  day.  But  there  must  be 
something  wrong  about  this  last  story  which  we  do  not 
perceive.  Perhaps  my  recent  success  may  have  made 
me  a  little  careless  in  writing  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,"  said  Hypatia. 

u  At  any  rate,"  I  continued,  "I  will  lay  it  aside, 
and  will  go  to  work  on  a  new  one." 

In  due  course  of  time  I  had  another  manuscript  fin- 
ished, and  I  sent  it  to  my  favorite  periodical.  It  was 
retained  some  weeks,  and  then  came  back  to  me.  "  It 
will  never  do,"  the  editor  wrote,  quite  warmly,  "  f or 
you  to  go  backward.  The  demand  for  the  number 
containing  '  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister '  still  con- 
tinues, and  we  do  not  intend  to  let  you  disappoint 
that  great  body  of  readers  who  would  be  so  eager  to 
see  another  number  containing  one  of  your  stories.'7 


104  II1S    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTEB. 

I  sent  this  manuscript  to  four  other  periodicals,  and 
from  each  of  them  was  it  returned  with  remarks  to  the 
effect,  that,  although  it  was  not  a  bad  story  in  itself,  it 
was  not  what  they  would  expect  from  the  author  of 
"  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister." 

The  editor  of  a  Western  magazine  wrote  to  me  for 
a  story  to  be  published  in  a  special  number  which  he 
would  issue  for  the  holida}*s.  I  wrote  him  one  of  the 
character  and  length  he  asked  for,  and  sent  it  to  him. 
By  return  mail  it  came  back  to  me.  "  I  had  hoped," 
the  editor  wrrote,  u  when  I  asked  for  a  story  from  your 
pen,  to  receive  something  like  '  His  Wife's  Deceased 
Sister,'  and  I  must  own  that  I  am  very  much  disap- 
pointed." 

I  was  so  filled  with  anger  when  I  read  this  note,  that 
I  openly  objurgated  "  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister." 
"  You^must  excuse  me,"  I  said  to  my  astonished  wife, 
"for  expressing  myself  thus  in  your  presence;  but 
that  confounded  story  will  be  the  ruin  of  me  yet. 
Until  it  is  forgotten  nobody  will  ever  take  any  thing  I 
write." 

"  And  you  cannot  expect  it  ever  to  be  forgotten," 
said  Hypatia,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

It  is  needless  for  me  to  detail  my  literary  efforts  iu 
the  course  of  the  next  few  months.  The  ideas  of  the 
editors  with  whom  my  principal  business  had  been 
done,  in  regard  to  my  literary  ability,  had  been  so 
raised  by  my  unfortunate  story  of  "His  Wife's  De- 
ceased Sister,"  that  I  found  it  was  of  no  use  to  send 
them  any  thing  of  lesser  merit.  And  as  to  the  other 
journals  which  I  tried,  they  evidently  considered  it  an 


HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER.  105 

insult  for  me  to  send  them  matter  inferior  to  that  by 
which  my  reputation  had  lately  risen.  The  fact  was 
that  my  successful  story  had  ruined  me.  My  income 
was  at  end,  and  want  actually  stared  me  in  the  face ; 
and  I  must  admit  that  I  did  not  like  the  expression 
of  its  countenance.  It  was  of  no  use  for  me  to  try 
to  write  another  story  like  "  His  Wife's  Deceased 
Sister."  I  could  not  get  married  every  time  I  began 
a  new  manuscript,  and  it  was  the  exaltation  of  mind 
caused  by  my  wedded  felicity  which  produced  that 
story. 

ult's  perfectly  dreadful!  "  said  my  wife.  "  If  I 
had  had  a  sister,  and  she  had  died,  I  would  have 
thought  it  was  my  fault." 

"  It  could  not  be  your  fault,"  I  answered,  "  and  I 
do  not  think  it  was  mine.  I  had  no  intention  of 
deceiving  anybody  into  the  belief  that  I  could  do 
that  sort  of  thing  every  time,  and  it  ought  not  to  be 
expected  of  me.  Suppose  Raphael's  patrons  had  tried 
to  keep  him  screwed  up  to  the  pitch  of  the  Sistine 
Madonna,  and  had  refused  to  buy  any  thing  which 
was  not  as  good  as  that.  In  that  case  I  think  he 
would  have  occupied  a  much  earlier  and  narrower 
grave  than  that  on  which  Mr.  Morris  Moore  hangs 
his  funeral  decorations." 

"But,  my  dear,"  said  Hypatia,  who  was  posted  on 
such  subjects,  "  the  Sistine  Madonna  was  one  of  his 
latest  paintings." 

"  Very  true,"  said  I ;  "  but  if  he  had  married,  as  I 
did,  he  would  have  painted  it  earlier." 

I  was  walking  homeward  one  afternoon  about  this 


106  HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER. 

time,  when  I  met  Barbel,  —  a  man  I  had  known  well 
in  my  early  literary  career.  He  was  now  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  but  looked  older.  His  hair  and  beard 
were  quite  gray ;  and  his  clothes,  which  were  of  the 
same  general  hue,  gave  me  the  idea  that  they,  like  his 
hair,  had  originally  been  black.  Age  is  very  hard  on 
a  man's  external  appointments.  Barbel  had  an  air 
of  having  been  to  let  for  a  long  time,  and  quite  out  of 
repair.  But  there  was  a  kindly  gleam  in  his  e}re,  and 
he  welcomed  me  cordially. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  old  fellow?"  said  he. 
"  I  never  saw  you  look  so  woe-begone." 

I  had  no  reason  to  conceal  any  thing  from  Barbel. 
In  my  younger  days  he  had  been  of  great  use  to  me, 
and  he  had  a  right  to  know  the  state  of  my  affairs.  I 
laid  the  whole  case  plainly  before  him. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  when  I  had  finished,  "  come 
with  me  to  my  room :  I  have  something  I  would  like 
to  say  to  you  there." 

I  followed  Barbel  to  his  room.  It  was  at  the  top 
of  a  very  dirty  and  well-worn  house,  which  stood  in  a 
narrow  and  lumpy  street,  into  which  few  vehicles  ever 
penetrated,  except  the  ash  and  garbage  carts,  and  the 
rickety  wagons  of  the  venders  of  stale  vegetables. 

"  This  is  not  exactly  a  fashionable  promenade,"  said 
Barbel,  as  we  approached  the  house  ;  "  but  in  some 
respects  it  reminds  me  of  the  streets  in  Italian  towns, 
where  the  palaces  lean  over  towards  each  other  in  such 
a  friendly  way." 

Barbel's  room  was,  to  my  mind,  rather  more  doleful 
than  the  street.  It  was  dark,  it  was  dusty,  and  cob- 


HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTEE.  107 

webs  hung  from  every  corner.  The  few  chairs  upon 
the  floor  and  the  books  upon  a  greasy  table  seemed  to 
be  afflicted  with  some  dorsal  epidemic,  for  their  backs 
were  either  gone  or  broken.  A  little  bedstead  in  the 
corner  was  covered  with  a  spread  made  of  "  New- 
York  Heralds,"  with  their  edges  pasted  together. 

"  There  is  nothing  better,"  said  Barbel,  noticing  my 
glance  towards  this  novel  counterpane,  "  for  a  bed- 
covering  than  newspapers :  they  keep  you  as  warm  as 
a  blanket,  and  are  much  lighter.  I  used  to  use  "  Tri- 
bunes," but  they  rattled  too  much." 

The  only  part  of  the  room  which  was  well  lighted 
was  at  one  end  near  the  solitary  window.  Here,  upon 
a  table  with  a  spliced  leg,  stood  a  little  grindstone. 

"  At  the  other  end  of  the  room,"  said  Barbel,  "is 
my  cook-stove,  which  you  can't  see  unless  I  light  the 
candle  in  the  bottle  which  stands  by  it;  but  if  you 
don't  care  particularly  to  examine  it,  I  won't  go  to  the 
expense  of  lighting  up.  You  might  pick  up  a  good 
many  odd  pieces  of  bric-a-brac  around  here,  if  you 
chose  to  strike  a  match  and  investigate  ;  but  I  would 
not  advise  you  to  do  so.  It  would  pay  better  to  throw 
the  things  out  of  the  window  than  to  carry  them  down 
stairs.  The  particular  piece  of  in-door  decoration  to 
which  I  wisj  to  call  your  attention  is  this."  And  he 
led  me  to  a  little  wooden  frame  which  hung  against 
the  wall  near  the  window.  Behind  a  dusty  piece  of 
glass  it  held  what  appeared  to  be  a  leaf  from  a  small 
magazine  or  journal.  "There,"  said  he,  "you  see 
a  page  from  'The  Grasshopper,'  a  humorous  paper 
which  nourished  in  this  city  some  half-dozen  years 


108  HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   81STER. 

ago.  I  used  to  write  regularly  for  that  paper,  as  you 
may  remember." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed!"  I  exclaimed.  "And  I  shall 
never  forget  your  '  Conundrum  of  the  Anvil '  which 
appeared  in  it.  How  often  have  I  laughed  at  that  most 
wonderful  conceit,  and  how  often  have  I  put  it  to  my 
friends!" 

Barbel  gazed  at  me  silently  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  pointed  to  the  frame.  "That  printed  page,"  he 
said  solemnly,  "  contains  the  'Conundrum  of  the  An- 
vil.' I  hang  it  there,  so  that  I  can  see  it  while  I  work. 
That  conundrum  ruined  me.  It  was  the  last  thing  I 
wrote  for  '  The  Grasshopper.'  How  I  ever  came  to 
imagine  it,  I  cannot  tell.  It  is  one  of  those  things 
which  occur  to  a  man  but  once  in  a  lifetime.  After 
the  wild  shout  of  delight  with  which  the  public  greeted 
that  conundrum,  my  subsequent  efforts  met  with  hoots 
of  derision.  l  The  Grasshopper  '  turned  its  hind-legs 
upon  me.  I  sank  from  bad  to  worse,  —  much  worse, 
until  at  last  I  found  myself  reduced  to  my  present 
occupation,  which  is  that  of  grinding  points  to  pins. 
By  this  I  procure  my  bread,  coffee,  and  tobacco,  and 
sometimes  potatoes  and  meat.  One  day  while  I  was 
hard  at  work,  an  organ-grinder  came  into  the  street 
below.  He  played  the  serenade  from  Trovatore  ;  and 
the  familiar  notes  brought  back  visions  of  old  days 
and  old  delights,  when  \he  successful  writer  wore  good 
clothes  and  sat  at  operas,  when  he  looked  into  sweet 
eyes  and  talked  of  Italian  airs,  when  his  future  ap- 
peared all  a  succession  of  bright  scenery  and  joyous 
acts,  without  any  provision  for  a  drop-curtain.  And  as 


SIS   WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER.          109 

my  ear  listened,  and  my  mind  wandered  in  this  happy 
retrospect,  my  every  faculty  seemed  exalted,  and,  with- 
out any  thought  upon  the  matter,  I  ground  points  upon 
my  pins  so  fine,  so  regular,  and  smooth,  that  they  would 
have  pierced  with  ease  the  leather  of  a  boot,  or  slipped 
among,  without  abrasion,  the  finest  threads  of  rare  old 
lace.  When  the  organ  stopped,  and  I  fell  back  into 
my  real  world  of  cobwebs  and  mustiuess,  I  gazed  upon 
the  pins  I  had  just  ground,  and,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  I  threw  them  into  the  street,  and  reported 
the  lot  as  spoiled.  This  cost  me  a  little  money,  but  it 
saved  me  my  livelihood." 

After  a  few  moments  of  silence,  Barbel  resumed,  — • 

"I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you,  my  young  friend. 
All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  look  upon  that  framed 
conundrum,  then  upon  this  grindstone,  and  then  to 
go  home  and  reflect.  As  for  me,  I  have  a  gross  of 
pins  to  grind  before  the  sun  goes  down." 

1  cannot  say  that  my  depression  of  mind  was  at  all 
relieved  by  what  I  had  seen  and  heard.  I  had  lost 
sight  of  Barbel  for  some  years,  and  I  had  supposed 
him  still  floating  on  the  sun-sparkling  stream  of  pros- 
perity where  I  had  last  seen  him.  It  was  a  great 
shock  to  me  to  find  him  in  such  a  condition  of  pov- 
erty and  squalor,  and  to  see  a  man  who  had  originated 
the  "  Conundrum  of  the  Anvil  "  reduced  to  the  soul- 
depressing  occupation  of  grinding  pin-points.  As  I 
walked  and  thought,  the  dreadful  picture  of  a  totally 
eclipsed  future  arose  before  my  mind.  The  moral  of 
Barbel  sank  deep  into  my  heart. 

When  I  reached  home  I  told  my  wife  the  story  of 


110  HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER. 

my  friend  Barbel.  She  listened  with  a  sad  and  eager 
interest. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "if  our  fortunes  do  not 
quickly  mend,  that  we  shall  have  to  buy  two  little 
grindstones.  You  know  I  could  help  you  at  that  sort 
of  thing." 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  together  and  talked,  and 
devised  many  plans  for  the  future.  1  did  not  think 
it  necessary  yet  for  me  to  look  out  for  a  pin-contract ; 
but  I  must  find  some  way  of  making  money,  or  we 
should  starve  to  death.  Of  course,  the  first  thing  that 
suggested  itself  was  the  possibility  of  finding  some 
other  business  ;  but,  apart  from  the  difficult}'  of  imme- 
diately obtaining  remunerative  work  in  occupations  to 
which  I  had  not  been  trained,  I  felt  a  great  and  natu- 
ral reluctance  to  give  up  a  profession  for  which  I  had 
carefully  prepared  myself,  and  which  I  had  adopted  as 
my  life-work.  It  would  be  very  hard  for  me  to  lay 
down  my  pen  forever,  and  to  close  the  top  of  my  ink- 
stand upon  all  the  bright  and  happy  fancies  wrhich  I 
had  seen  mirrored  in  its  tranquil  pool.  We  talked  and 
pondered  the  rest  of  that  day  and  a  good  deal  of  the 
night,  but  we  came  to  no  conclusion  as  to  what  it 
would  be  best  for  us  to  do. 

The  next  day  I  determined  to  go  and  call  upon  the 
editor  of  the  journal  for  which,  in  happier  days,  before 
the  blight  of  "His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister"  rested 
upon  me,  I  used  most  frequently  to  write,  and,  having 
inmkly  explained  my  condition  to  him,  to  ask  his 
advice.  The  editor  was  a  good  man,  and  had  always 
been  my  friend.  He  listened  with  great  attention  to 


HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTEE.  Ill 

what  I  told  him,  and  evidently  sympathized  with  me  in 
my  trouble. 

"As  we  have  written  to  you,"  he  said,  "the  only 
reason  why  we  did  not  accept  the  manuscripts  you 
sent  us  was,  that  they  would  have  disappointed  the 
high  hopes  that  the  public  had  formed  in  regard  to 
you.  We  have  had  letter  after  letter  asking  when  we 
were  going  to  publish  another  story  like  i  His  Wife's 
Deceased  Sister.'  We  felt,  and  we  still  feel,  that  it 
would  be  wrong  to  allow  you  to  destroy  the  fair  fabric 
which  yourself  has  raised.  But,"  he  added,  with  a 
kind  smile,  "  I  see  very  plainly  that  your  well-deserved 
reputation  will  be  of  little  advantage  to  you  if  you 
should  starve  at  the  moment  that  its  genial  beams  are, 
so  to  speak,  lighting  you  up." 

"Its  beams  are  not  genial,"  I  answered.  "They 
have  scorched  and  withered  me." 

"  How  would  you  like,"  said  the  editor,  after  a 
short  reflection,  "  to  allow  us  to  publish  the  stories 
you  have  recently  written  under  some  other  name  than 
your  own?  That  would  satisfy  us  and  the  public, 
would  put  money  in  your  pocket,  and  would  not  inter- 
fere with  your  reputation." 

Joyfully  I  seized  that  noble  fellow  by  the  hand,  and 
instantly  accepted  his  proposition.  "  Of  course,"  said 
I  "  a  reputation  is  a  very  good  thing ;  but  no  reputa- 
tion can  take  the  place  of  food,  clothes,  and  a  house 
to  live  in  ;  and  I  gladly  agree  to  sink  my  over-illumined 
name  into  oblivion,  and  to  appear  before  the  public  as 
a  new  and  unknown  writer." 

"  I  hope  that  need  not  be  for  long,"  he  said,  "  for 


112  HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTEE. 

I  feel  sure  that  3-011  will  yet  write  stories  as  good  as 
4  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister.'  " 

All  the  manuscripts  I  had  on  hand  I  now  sent  to 
my  good  friend  the  editor,  and  in  due  and  proper 
order  they  appeared  in  his  journal  under  the  name  of 
John  Darmstadt,  which  I  had  selected  as  a  substitute 
for  my  own,  permanently  disabled.  I  made  a  similar 
arrangement  with  other  editors,  and  John  Darmstadt 
received  the  credit  of  every  thing  that  proceeded  from 
my  pen.  Our  circumstances  now  became  very  com- 
fortable, and  occasionally  we  even  allowed  ourselves 
to  indulge  in  little  dreams  of  prosperity. 

Time  passed  on  very  pleasantly  ;  one  year,  another, 
and  then  a  little  son  was  born  to  us.  It  is  often  diffi- 
cult, I  believe,  for  thoughtful  persons  to  decide  whether 
the  beginning  of  their  conjugal  career,  or  the  earliest 
weeks  in  the  life  of  their  first-born,  be  the  happiest 
and  proudest  period  of  their  existence.  For  myself  I 
can  only  say  that  the  same  exaltation  of  mind,  the 
same  rarefication  of  idea  and  invention,  which  suc- 
ceeded upon  my  wedding-day  came  upon  me  now.  As 
then,  my  ecstatic  emotions  crystallized  themselves  into 
a  motive  for  a  story,  and  without  delay  I  set  myself  to 
work  upon  it.  My  boy  was  about  six  weeks  old  when 
the  manuscript  was  finished ;  and  one  evening,  as  we 
sat  before  a  comfortable  fire  in  our  sitting-room,  with 
the  curtains  drawn,  and  the  soft  lamp  lighted,  and  the 
baby  sleeping  soundly  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  I 
read  the  story  to  my  wife. 

When  I  had  finished,  my  wife  arose,  and  tnrew  her- 
self into  my  arms.  "  I  was  never  so  prouJ  of  vou," 


HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER.  113 

she  said,  her  glad  eyes  sparkling,  "as  I  am  at  this 
moment.  That  is  a  wonderful  story  !  It  is,  indeed  I 
am  sure  it  is,  just  as  good  as  '  His  Wife's  Deceased 
Sister/  " 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  a  sudden  and  chilling  sen- 
sation crept  over  us  both.  All  her  warmth  and  fervor, 
and  the  proud  and  happy  glow  engendered  within  me 
by  this  praise  and  appreciation  from  one  I  loved,  van- 
ished in  an  instant.  We  stepped  apart,  and  gazed 
upon  each  other  with  pallid  faces.  In  the  same  mo- 
ment the  terrible  truth  had  flashed  upon  us  both. 

This  story  was  as  good  as  tc  His  Wife's  Deceased 
Sister"! 

We  stood  silent.  The  exceptional  lot  of  Barbel's 
super-pointed  pins  seemed  to  pierce  our  very  souls.  A 
dreadful  vision  rose  before  me  of  an  impending  fall 
and  crash,  in  which  our  domestic  happiness  should 
vanish,  and  our  prospects  for  our  boy  be  wrecked,  just 
as  we  had  begun  to  build  them  up. 

My  wife  approached  me,  and  took  my  hand  in  hers, 
which  was  as  cold  as  ice.  "  Be  strong  and  firm,"  she 
said.  UA  great  danger  threatens  us,  but  you  must 
brace  yourself  against  it.  Be  strong  and  firm." 

I  pressed  her  hand,  and  we  said  no  more  that  night 

The  next  day  I  took  the  manuscript  I  had  just  writ- 
ten, and  carefully  enfolded  it  in  stout  wrapping-paper. 
Then  I  went  to  a  neighboring  grocery  store,  and  bought 
a  small,  strong,  tin  box,  originally  intended  for  biscuit, 
with  a  cover  that  fitted  tightly.  In  this  I  placed  my 
manuscript ;  and  then  I  took  the  box  to  a  tinsmith, 
and  had  the  top  fastened  on  with  hard  solder.  Whec 


114          HIS   WIFE'S  DECEASED  SISTER. 

I  went  home  I  ascended  into  the  garret,  and  brought 
down  to  my  study  a  ship's  cash-box,  which  had  once 
belonged  to  one  of  my  family  who  was  a  sea-captain. 
This  box  was  very  heavy,  and  firmly  bound  with  iron, 
and  was  secured  by  two  massive  locks.  Calling  my 
wife,  I  told  her  of  the  contents  of  the  tin  case,  which 
I  then  placed  in  the  box,  and,  having  shut  down  the 
heavy  lid,  I  doubly  locked  it. 

4 'This  key,"  said  I,  putting  it  in  my  pocket,  "I 
shall  throw  into  the  river  when  I  go  out  this  after- 
noon." 

My  wife  watched  me  eagerly,  with  a  pallid  and  firm, 
set  countenance,  but  upon  which  I  could  see  the  faint 
glimmer  of  returning  happiness. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  well,"  she  said,  u  to  secure  it  still 
further  by  sealing-wax  and  pieces  of  tape?  " 

"  No,"  said  I.  "I  do  not  believe  that  any  one  will 
attempt  to  tamper  with  our  prosperity.  And  now,  my 
dear,"  I  continued  in  an  impressive  voice,  "no  one 
but  you,  and,  in  the  course  of  time,  our  son,  shall 
know  that  this  manuscript  exists.  When  I  am  dead, 
those  who  survive  me  may,  if  they  see  fit,  cause  this 
box  to  be  split  open,  and  the  story  published.  Thes 
reputation  it  may  give  my  name  cannot  harm  m<? 
then." 


OUR   STORY. 


i. 

I  BECAME  acquainted  with  Miss  Bessie  Vancouver 
at  a  reception  given  by  an  eminent  literary  gentle- 
man in  New  York.  The  circumstances  were  a  little 
peculiar.  Miss  Vancouver  and  I  had  each  written  and 
recently  published  a  book  ;  and  we  were  introduced  to 
e?ch  other  as  young  authors  whose  works  had  made 
us  known  to  the  public,  and  who,  consequently,  should 
know  each  other.  The  peculiarity  of  the  situation  lay 
in  the  fact  that  I  had  not  read  Miss  Vancouver's  book, 
nor  had  she  read  mine.  Consequently,  although  each 
felt  bound  to  speak  of  the  work  of  the  other,  neither 
of  us  could  do  it  except  in  the  most  general  and  cau- 
tious way.  I  was  quite  sure  that  her  book  was  a  novel, 
but  that  was  all  that  I  knew  about  it,  except  that  I 
had  heard  it  well  spoken  of ;  but  she  supposed  my 
book  was  of  a  scientific  character,  whereas,  in  reality, 
it  also  was  a  novel,  although  its  title  did  not  indicate 
the  fact.  There  was  therefore  an  air  of  restraint  and 
stiffness  about  our  first  interview  which  it  might  not 
have  had  if  we  had  frankly  acknowledged  our  short- 

115 


116  OUR   STOET. 

comings.  But,  as  the  general  conversation  led  her  to 
believe  that  she  was  the  only  person  in  the  room  who 
had  not  read  my  book,  and  me  to  believe  that  1  w.°.s 
the  only  one  who  had  not  read  hers,  we  were  naturally 
loath  to  confess  the  truth  to  each  other, 

1  next  met  Miss  Vancouver  in  Paris,  at  the  house 
of  a  lady  whose  parlors  are  the  frequent  rendezvous  of 
Americans,  especially  those  given  to  art  or  literature. 
This  time  we  met  on  different  ground.  I  had  read  her 
book  and  she  mine ;  and  as  soon  as  we  had  shaken 
hands  we  began  to  talk  of  each  other's  work,  not  as  if 
it  had  been  the  beginning  of  a  new  conversation,  but 
rather  as  the  continuation  of  one  broken  off.  Each 
liked  the  book  of  the  other  extremely,  and  we  were 
free  to  say  so.  . 

"  But  I  am  not  satisfied  with  my  novel,"  said  Miss 
Vancouver.  "  There  is  too  much  oneness  about  it ;  by 
which  I  mean  that  it  is  not  diversified  enough.  It  is 
all,  or  nearly  all,  about  two  people,  who,  of  course, 
have  but  one  object  in  life ;  and  it  seems  to  me  now 
that  their  story  might  have  been  finished  a  great  deal 
sooner,  though,  of  course,  in  that  case  it  would  not 
have  been  long  enough  to  make  a  book." 

To  this  I  politely  answered  that  I  did  not  agree  with 
her,  for  the  story  was  interesting  to  the  very  end  ;  but, 
of  course,  if  she  had  put  more  characters  into  it,  and 
they  had  been  as  good  in  their  way  as  those  she  already 
had,  the  book  would  have  been  that  much  the  better. 
"As  for  me,"  I  continued,  "my  trouble  is  entirely 
the  other  way.  I  have  no  oneness  whatever.  My 
tendency  is  much  more  to  fifteen  or  twenty-nesg.  I 


OUR   STORY.  117 

carry  a  story  a  little  way  in  one  direction,  and  then 
I  stop  and  go  off  in  another.  It  is  sometimes  difficult 
to  make  it  understood  why  a  character  should  have  been 
brought  into  the  story  at  all ;  and  I  have  had  a  good 
deal  of  trouble  in  making  some  of  them  do  something 
toward  the  end  to  show  that  they  are  connected  with 
the  general  plot." 

She  said  she  had  noticed  that  there  was  a  wideness 
of  scope  in  my  book ;  but  what  she  would  have  said 
further  I  do  not  know,  for  our  hostess  now  came  down 
upon  us  and  carried  off  Miss  Vancouver  to  introduce 
her  to  an  old  lady  who  had  successfully  steered  about 
fifty  barques  across  that  sea  on  which  Miss  Vancouver 
had  just  set  out. 

Our  next  meeting  was  in  a  town  on  the  Mediterra- 
nean, in  the  south  of  France.  I  had  secured  board  at 
a  large  pension  there,  and  was  delighted  to  find  that 
Miss  Bessie  Vancouver  and  her  mother  were  already 
inmates  of  the  house.  As  soon  as  I  had  the  oppor- 
tunity, I  broached  to  her  an  idea  which  had  frequently 
possessed  my  mind  since  our  conversation  in  Paris.  I 
proposed  that  we  should  write  a  story  together,  some- 
thing like  Erckmann-Chatrian,  or  Mark  Twain  and  Mr. 
Warner  in  "The  Gilded  Age."  Since  she  had  too 
much  unity  of  purpose  and  travelled  in  too  narrow  a 
path,  and  I  branched  off  too  much,  and  had  too  great 
a  tendency  to  variety,  our  styles,  if  properly  blended, 
would  possess  all  the  qualities  needed  in  a  good  stor}T ; 
and  there  was  no  reason  why  we  should  not,  writing 
thus  together,  achieve  a  success  greater,  perhaps,  than 
either  of  us  could  expect  writing  alone,  I  had  thought 


118  OUR   STORY. 

so  much  on  this  subject  that  I  was  able  to  say  a  groat 
deal,  and  to  say  it  pretty  well,  too,  so  far  as  I  could 
judge.  Miss  Vancouver  listened  with  great  attention, 
ani  the  more  I  said,  the  more  the  idea  pleased  her. 
She  said  she  would  take  the  afternoon  to  consider  the 
matter ;  and  in  the  evening  she  told  me  in  the  parlor 
that  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  if  I  still  thought  well 
of  the  plan,  to  assist  me  in  writing  a  story,  —  this  being 
the  polite  way  in  which  she  chose  to  put  it,  —  but  that 
she  thought  it  would  be  better  for  us  to  begin  with  a 
short  story,  and  not  with  a  book,  for  in  this  way  we 
could  sooner  see  how  we  would  be  likely  to  succeed. 
Of  course  I  agreed  to  this  proposition,  and  we  arranged 
that  we  should  meet  the  next  morning  in  the  garden 
and  lay  out  a  plan  for  our  story. 

The  garden  attached  to  the  house  in  which  we  lived 
was  a  very  quaint  and  pleasant  one.  It  had  been  made 
a  hundred  years  ago  or  more  by  an  Italian  nobleman, 
whose  mansion,  now  greatly  altered,  had  become  our 
present  pension.  The  garden  was  laid  out  in  a  series 
of  terraces  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  and  abounded  in 
walks  shaded  by  orange  and  lemon  trees,  arbors,  and 
vine-covered  trellises ;  fountains,  half  concealed  by , 
overhanging  ivy ;  and  suddenly  discovered  stair-ways, 
wide  and  shadowy,  leading  up  into  regions  of  greater 
quaintness  and  seclusion.  Flowers  were  here,  and 
palm-trees,  and  great  cactus-bushes,  with  their  red 
fruit  half  hollowed  out  by  the  nibbling  birds.  From 
the  upper  terraces  we  could  see  the  blue  Mediterra- 
nean spreading  far  away  on  one  side,  while  the  snow- 
covered  tops  of  the  Maritime  Alps  stood  bright  against 


OUR   STOET.  119 

the  sky.  The  garden  was  little  frequented,  and  alto- 
gether it  was  a  good  place  in  which  to  plan  a  story. 

We  consulted  together  for  several  days  before  we 
actually  began  to  work.  At  first,  we  sat  in  an  arbor 
on  one  of  the  lower  terraces,  where  there  were  a  little 
iron  table  and  some  chairs  ;  but  now  and  then  a  per- 
son would  come  there  for  a  morning  stroll,  and  so  we 
moved  up  higher  to  a  seat  under  a  palm-tree,  and  the 
next  day  to  another  terrace,  where  there  was  a  secluded 
corner  overshadowed  by  huge  cacti.  But  the  place 
which  suited  us  best  of  all  was  the  top  of  an  old  tower 
at  one  end  of  the  garden.  This  tower  had  been  built 
many,  many  hundred  }rears  before  the  garden  was 
thought  of,  and  its  broad,  fiat  roof  was  level  with  one 
of  the  higher  terraces.  Here  we  could  work  and  con- 
sult in  quiet,  with  little  fear  of  being  disturbed. 

Not  finding  it  easy  to  plan  out  the  whole  story  at 
once,  we  determined  to  begin  by  preparing  back- 
grounds. We  concluded  that  as  this  was  to  be  a  short 
story,  it  would  be  sufficient  to  have  descriptions  of  two 
natural  scenes  in  which  the  two  principal  incidents 
should  occur ;  and  as  we  wished  to  do  all  our  work 
from  natural  models,  we  thought  it  best  to  describe 
the  scene  which  lay  around  us,  than  which  nothing 
could  be  more  beautiful  or  more  suitable.  One  scene 
was  to  be  on  the  sea-shore,  with  a  mellow  light  upon 
the  rippling  waves,  and  the  sails  of  fishing-vessels  in 
the  distance.  This  Miss  Vancouver  was  to  do,  while 
I  was  to  take  a  scene  among  the  hills  and  mountains 
at  the  back  of  the  town.  I  walked  over  there  one 
afternoon  when  Miss  Vancouver  had  gone  out  with  her 


120  OUR   STOUT. 

mother.  I  got  on  a  high  point,  and  worked  up  a  very 
satisfactory  description  of  the  frowning  mountains  be- 
hind me.  the  old  monasteries  on  the  hills,  and  the  town 
stretching  out  below,  with  a  little  river  rushing  along 
between  two  rows  of  picturesque  washerwomen  to  the 
sea. 

We  read  our  backgrounds  to  each  other,  and  were 
both  very  well  satisfied.  Our  styles  were  as  different 
as  the  scenes  we  described.  Hers  was  clear  and 
smooth,  and  mine  forcible  and  somewhat  abrupt,  and 
thus  the  strong  points  of  each  scene  were  better 
brought  out ;  but,  in  order  that  our  styles  might  be 
unified,  so  to  speak,  by  being  judiciously  blended, 
I  suggested  some  strong  and  effective  points  to  be 
introduced  into  her  description,  while  she  toned  down 
some  of  my  phrases,  and  added  a  word  here  and  there 
which  gave  a  color  and  beauty  to  the  description  which 
it  had  not  possessed  before. 

Our  backgrounds  being  thus  satisfactory,  —  and  it 
took  a  good  deal  of  consultation  to  make  them  so,  — 
our  next  work  was  to  provide  characters  for  the  stor}'. 
These  were  to  be  drawn  from  life,  for  it  would  be  per- 
fectly ridiculous  to  create  imaginary  characters  when 
there  were  so  many  original  and  interesting  personages 
around  us.  We  soon  agreed  upon  an  individual  who 
would  serve  as  a  model  for  our  hero  ;  I  forget  whether 
it  was  I  or  Miss  Vancouver  who  first  suggested  him. 
He  was  a  young  man,  but  not  so  very  young  either, 
who  lived  in  the  house  with  us,  and  about  whom  there 
was  a  mystery.  Nobody  knew  exactly  who  he  was,  or 
where  he  came  from,  or  why  he  was  here.  It  was  evi- 


OUR   STOUT.  121 

dent  he  did  not  come  for  society,  for  he  kept  very 
much  to  himself  ;  and  the  attractions  of  the  town  could 
not  have  brought  him  here,  for  he  seemed  to  care  very 
little  about  them.  We  seldom  saw  him  except  at  the 
table  and  occasionally  in  the  garden.  When  we  met 
him  in  the  latter  place,  he  always  seemed  anxious  to 
avoid  observation  ;  and  as  we  did  not  wish  to  hurt  his 
feelings  by  letting  him  suppose  that  he  was  an  object 
of  curiosity  to  us,  we  endeavored,  as  far  as  possible, 
to  make  it  apparent  that  we  were  not  looking  at  him 
or  thinking  of  him.  But  still,  whenever  we  had  a  good 
chance,  we  studied  him.  Of  course,  we  could  not 
make  out  his  mystery,  but  that  was  not  necessaiy,  nor 
did  we,  indeed,  think  it  would  be  proper.  We  could 
drew  him  as  we  saw  him,  and  then  make  the  mystery 
what  we  pleased  ;  its  character  depending  a  good  deal 
upon  the  plot  we  devised. 

Miss  Vancouver  undertook  to  draw  the  hero,  and 
she  went  to  work  upon  him  immediately.  In  personal 
appearance,  she  altered  the  model  a  good  deal.  She 
darkened  his  hair,  and  took  off  his  whiskers,  leaving 
him  only  a  mustache.  She  thought,  too,  that  he  ought 
to  be  a  little  taller,  and  asked  me  my  height,  which  is 
five  feet  nine.  She  considered  that  a  very  good  height, 
and  brought  the  hero  up  to  it.  She  also  made  him 
some  years  younger,  but  endeavored,  as  far  as  seemed 
suitable  to  the  story,  to  draw  him  exactly  as  he  was. 

I  was  to  do  the  heroine,  but  found  it  very  hard  "to 
choose  a  model.  As  I  said  before,  we  determined 
to  draw  all  our  characters  from  life,  but  I  could  think 
of  no  one,  in  the  somewhat  extensive  company  by 


122  OUR   STORY. 

which  we  were  surrounded,  who  would  answer  my  pur- 
pose. Nor  could  I  fix  my  mind  upon  any  person  in 
other  parts  of  the  world,  whom  I  knew  or  had  known, 
who  resembled  the  idea  I  had  formed  of  our  heroine. 
After  thinking  this  matter  over  a  good  deal,  I  told 
Miss  Vancouver  that  I  believed  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  would  be  to  take  her  for  my  model.  I  was  with 
her  a  good  deal,  and  thus  could  study  out  and  work 
up  certain  points  as  I  wrote,  which  would  be  a  great 
advantage.  She  objected  to  this,  because,  as  she  said, 
the  author  of  a  story  should  not  be  drawn  as  its  hero- 
ine. But  I  asserted  that  this  would  not  be  the  case. 
She  would  merely  suggest  the  heroine  to  me,  and  I 
would  so  do  my  work  that  the  heroine  would  not  sug- 
gest her  to  anybody  else.  This,  I  thought,  was  the 
way  in  which  a  model  ought  to  be  used.  After  we 
had  talked  the  subject  over  a  good  deal,  she  agreed  to 
my  plan,  and  I  went  to  work  with  much  satisfaction. 
I  gave  no  definite  description  of  the  lady,  but  endeav- 
ored to  indicate  the  impression  which  her  person  and 
character  produced  upon  me.  As  such  impressions  are 
seldom  the  same  in  any  two  cases,  there  was  no  dan- 
ger that  my  description  could  be  referred  back  to  her. 

When  I  read  to  her  the  sketch  I  had  written,  she 
objected  to  parts  of  it  as  not  being  correct ;  but  as  I 
asserted  that  it  was  not  intended  as  an  exact  copy  of 
the  model,  she  could  not  say  it  was  not  a  true  picture  ; 
and  so,  with  some  slight  modifications,  we  let  it  stand. 
I  thought  myself  that  it  was  a  very  good  piece  of  work. 
To  me  it  seemed  very  life-like  arid  piquant,  and  I 
believed  that  other  people  would  think  it  so. 


OUR   STORY.  123 

We  were  now  ready  for  the  incidents  and  the  plot, 
but  at  this  point  we  were  somewhat  interrupted  by 
Mrs.  Vancouver.  She  came  to  me  one  morning,  when 
I  was  waiting  to  go  with  her  daughter  to  our  stud}  in 
the  garden,  and  told  me  that  she  was  very  sorry  to 
notice  that  Miss  Vancouver  and  I  had  attracted  atten- 
tion to  ourselves  by  being  so  much  together  ;  and>  while 
she  understood  the  nature  of  the  literary  labor  on  ^vhich 
we  were  engaged,  she  did  not  wish  her  daughter  to 
become  the  object  of  general  attention  and  remark  in 
a  foreign  pension.  I  was  very  angry  when  I  heard 
that  people  had  been  directing  upon  us  their  imperti- 
nent curiosity,  and  I  discoursed  warmly  upon  the 
subject. 

"  Where  is  the  good,"  I  said,  "  of  a  person  or  per- 
sons devoting  himself  or  themselves,  with  enthusiasm 
and  earnestness,  to  his  or  their  life-work,  if  he  or  they 
are  to  be  interfered  with  by  the  impertinent  babble  of 
the  multitude?" 

Mrs.  Vancouver  was  not  prepared  to  give  an  exact 
answer  to  this  question,  but  she  considered  the  babble 
of  the  multitude  a  very  serious  thing.  She  had  been 
talking  to  her  daughter  on  the  subject,  and  thought  it 
right  to  speak  to  me. 

That,  morning  we  worked  separately  in  our  rooms, 
but  we  accomplished  little  or  nothing.  It  was,  of 
course,  impossible  to  do  any  thing  of  importance  in  a 
work  of  this  kind  without  consultation  and  co-opera- 
tion. The  next  day,  however,  I  devised  a  plan  which 
would  enable  us,  I  thought,  to  pursue  our  labors  with- 
out attracting  attention ;  and  Mrs.  Vancouver,  who 


124  OUR   STORY. 

was  a  kind-hearted  woman,  and  took  a  gieat  interest 
in  her  daughter's  literary  career,  told  me  if  I  could 
successfully  carry  out  any  thing  of  the  kind,  I  might 
do  so.  She  did  not  inquire  into  particulars,  nor  did  I 
explain  them  to  Miss  Bessie  ;  but  I  told  the  latter  that 
we  would  not  go  out  together  into  the  garden,  but  I 
would  go  first,  and  she  should  join  me  about  ten  min- 
utes afterward  on  the  tower ;  but  she  was  not  to  come 
if  she  saw  any  one  about. 

Near  the  top  of  the  hill,  above  the  garden,  once 
stood  an  ancient  mansion,  of  which  nothing  now 
remained  but  the  remnants  of  some  massive  masonry. 
A  court-yard,  however,  of  this  old  edifice  was  still 
surrounded  by  a  high  wall,  which  formed  the  upper 
boundary  of  our  garden.  From  a  point  near  the  tower 
a  flight  of  twisting  stone  steps,  flanked  by  blank  walls, 
which  turned  themselves  in  various  directions  to  suit 
the  angles  of  the  stair-way,  led  to  a  green  door  in  this 
wall.  Through  this  door  Miss  Vancouver  and  myself, 
and  doubtless  many  other  persons,  had  often  wished 
to  pass  ;  but  it  was  locked,  and,  on  inquiry,  we  found 
that  there  was  no  key  to  be  had.  The  day  previous, 
however,  when  wandering  by  myself,  I  had  examined 
this  door,  and  found  that  it  was  fastened  merely  by 
a  snap-lock  which  had  no  handle,  but  was  opened  by  a 
key.  I  had  a  knife  with  a  long,  strong  blade,  and 
pushing  this  into  the  hasp,  I  easily  forced  back  the 
bolt.  I  then  opened  the  door  and  walked  into  the  old 
court-yard. 

When  Miss  Vancouver  appeared  on  the  tower,  I  was 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  stone  steps  just  mentioned, 


STORY.  125 


with  the  green  door  slightly  ajar.  Calling  to  her  in  a 
low  tone,  she  ran  up  the  steps,  and,  to  her  amazement, 
I  ushered  her  into  the  court-yard  and  closed  the  door 
behind  us. 

"There,"  I  exultingly  exclaimed,  "is  our  study, 
where  we  can  write  our  story  without  interruption. 
We  will  come  and  go  away  separately  ;  the  people  of 
the  pension  will  not  know  that  we  are  here  or  have 
been  here,  and  there  will  be  no  occasion  for  that  im- 
pertinent attention  to  which  your  mother  so  properly 
objects." 

Miss  Vancouver  was  delighted,  and  we  walked  about 
and  surveyed  the  court-yard  with  much  satisfaction. 
I  had  already  selected  the  spot  for  our  work.  It  was 
in  the  shade  of  an  olive-tree,  the  only  tree  in  the  enclo- 
sure, beneath  which  there  was  a  rude  seat.  I  spread  a 
rug  upon  the  grass,  and  Miss  Bessie  sat  upon  the  seat, 
and  put  her  feet  upon  the  rug,  leaving  room  for  me  to 
sit  thereon.  We  now  took  out  our  little  blank-books 
and  our  stylograph  pens  and  were  ready  for  work.  I 
explained  that  I  had  done  nothing  the  day  before,  and 
Miss  Vancouver  said  that  had  also  been  the  case  with 
her.  She  had  not  wished  to  do  any  thing  important 
without  consultation  ;  but  supposing  that,  of  course, 
the  hero  was  to  fall  in  love  with  the  heroine,  she 
thought  she  might  as  well  make  him  begin,  but  she 
found  she  could  not  do  it  as  she  wished.  She  wanted 
him  to  indicate  to  the  lady  that  he  was  in  love  with  her 
without  exactly  saying  so.  Could  I  not  suggest  some 
good  form  for  giving  expression  to  this  state  of  things  ? 
After  a  little  reflection,  I  thought  I  could. 


126  OUR   STORY. 

"  I  will  speak,"  said  I,  "  as  if  I  were  the  hero,  and 
then  you  can  see  how  it  will  suit." 

44  Yes,"  said  she,  "but  you  must  not  forget  that 
what  you  say  should  be  very  gradual." 

I  tried  to  be  as  gradual  as  I  could,  and  to  indicate 
by  slow  degrees  the  state  of  mind  in  which  we  wished 
our  hero  to  be.  As  the  indication  became  stronger  and 
stronger,  I  thought  it  right  to  take  Miss  Vancouver's 
hand ;  but  to  this  she  objected,  because,  as  she  said, 
it  was  more  than  indication,  and  besides,  it  prevented 
her  from  writing  down  what  I  said.  We  argued  this 
point  a  little  while  without  altering  our  position,  and  I 
asserted  that  the  hand-holding  only  gave  point  and 
earnestness  to  the  hero's  remarks,  which  otherwise 
would  not  be  so  natural  and  true  to  life  ;  and  if  she 
wanted  to  use  her  right  hand,  her  left  hand  would  do 
to  hold.  We  made  this  change,  and  I  proceeded  with 
the  hero's  remarks. 

There  was  in  our  pension  a  young  German  girl  named 
Margarita.  She  was  a  handsome,  plump  maiden,  and 
spoke  English  very  well.  There  was  another  young 
lad}r,  also  a  German,  named  Gretzel.  She  was  a  little 
creature  and  the  fast  friend  of  Margarita.  These  two 
had  a  companion  whose  name  I  did  not  know.  She 
was  a  little  older  than  the  others,  and  was,  I  think,  a 
Pole.  She  also  understood  English.  As  I  was  warm- 
ing up  toward  the  peroration  of  our  hero's  indication, 
I  raised  my  eyes,  and  saw,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  not 
a  stone's  throw  from  us,  these  three  girls.  They  were 
talking  earnestly  and  walking  directly  toward  us.  The 
place  where  they  were  was  used  as  a  public  pleasure- 


OUR    STORY.  127 

ground,  and  was  separated  from  the  old  court-yard  by 
a  pale-fence.  Although  the  girls  could  not  come  to  us, 
there  was  nothing  to  prevent  their  seeing  us  if  they 
chose  to  look  our  way,  for  they  were  on  ground  which 
was  higher  than  the  top  of  the  fence. 

AVhen  I  saw  these  girls,  I  was  horror-stricken,  and 
my  knees,  on  which  I  rested,  trembled  beneath  me. 
I  did  not  dare  to  rise,  nor  to  change  my  position,  for 
fear  the  motion  should  attract  attention ;  nor  did  I 
cease  my  remarks,  for  had  I  suddenly  done  so,  my 
companion  would  have  looked  around  to  see  what  was 
the  matter,  and  would  certainly  have  jumped  up,  or 
have  done  something  which  would  have  brought  the 
eyes  of  those  girls  upon  us ;  but  my  voice  dropped 
very  low,  and  I  wondered  if  there  was  any  way  of  my 
gently  rolling  out  of  sight. 

But  at  this  moment  our  young  man  with  a  mystery 
suddenly  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  walk- 
ing rapidly  toward  the  girls.  There  was  something  on 
the  ocean,  probably  a  ship,  to  which  he  directed  tLeir 
attention  ;  and  then  he  actually  led  them  off,  pointing, 
as  it  appeared,  to  a  spot  from  which  the  distant  object 
could  be  more  plainly  seen.  They  all  walked  away  and 
disappeared  behind  the  brow  of  the  hill.  With  a  great 
feeling  of  relief,  I  arose  and  recounted  what  had  hap- 
pened. Miss  Vancouver  sprang  to  her  feet,  shut  up  her 
blank-book,  and  put  the  stopper  on  her  stylograph. 

"  This  place  will  not  do  at  all  to  work  in,"  she  said. 
44 1  will  not  have  those  girls  staring  at  us." 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  this  particular  spot 
would  not  do.  I  had  not  thought  of  any  one  walk- 


128  OUR   STORT. 

ing  in  the  grounds  immediately  above  us,  especially 
in  the  morning,  which  was  our  working  time. 

"They  may  return,"  she  said,  "and  we  must  go 
away  immediately  and  separately." 

But  I  could  not  agree  thus  to  give  up  our  new-found 
study.  The  enclosure  was  quite  extensive,  with  ruins 
at  the  other  end,  near  which  we  might  find  some  spot 
entirely  protected  from  observation.  So  I  went  to  look 
for  such  a  place,  leaving  Miss  Vancouver  under  the 
olive-tree,  where,  if  she  were  seen  alone,  it  would  not 
matter.  I  found  a  spot  which  might  answer,  and,  re- 
turning to  the  tree,  sent  her  to  look  at  it.  While  we 
were  thus  engaged,  we  heard  the  report  of  the  noon 
cannon.  This  startled  us  both.  The  hour  for 
deje&ner  d  la  fourchette  at  the  pens-ion  was  twelve 
o'clock,  and  people  were  generally  very  prompt  at 
that  meal.  It  would  not  do  for  us  to  be  late. 
Snatching  up  our  effects,  we  hurried  to  the  green  door, 
but  when  I  tried  to  open  it  as  before,  I  found  it  im- 
possible —  a  projecting  strip  of  wood  on  the  inside  of 
the  door-way  preventing  my  reaching  the  bolt  with  my 
knife-blade.  I  tried  to  tear  away  the  strip,  but  it  was 
too  firmly  fastened.  We  both  became  very  nervous 
and  troubled.  It  was  impossible  to  get  out  of  the 
enclosure  except  through  that  door,  for  the  wall  was 
quite  high  and  the  top  covered  with  broken  glass  em- 
bedded in  the  mortar.  The  party  on  the  hill  had  had 
time  to  go  down  and  around  through  the  town  to  the 
pension.  Our  places  at  the  table  would  be  the  only 
ones  empty.  What  could  attract  more  attention  than 
this  ?  And  what  would  Mrs.  Vancouver  think  and  say  ? 


OUR   STORY.  129 

At  this  moment  we  heard  some  one  working  at  the 
lock  on  the  other  side.  The  door  opened,  and  there 
stood  our  hero. 

"I  heard  some  one  at  this  door,"  he  said;  "and 
supposing  it  had  been  accidentally  closed,  I  came  up 
and  opened  it." 

"Thank  you;  thank  you  very  much!  "  cried  Miss 
Vancouver. 

And  away  she  ran  to  the  house.  If  only  I  were 
late,  it  did  not  matter  at  all.  I  followed  with  our  hero, 
and  endeavored  to  make  some  explanation  of  the  pre- 
dicament of  myself  and  the  young  lady.  He  took  it 
all  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  if  the  old  court-yard  were 
a  place  of  general  resort. 

"When  persons  stroll  through  that  door,"  he  said, 
"they  should  put  a  piece  of  stick  or  of  stone  against 
the  jamb,  so  that  if  the  door  is  blown  shut  by  the 
wind  the  latch  may  not  catch. '  * 

And  then  he  called  my  attention  to  a  beautiful  plant 
of  the  aloe  kind  which  had  just  begun  to  blossom. 

Miss  Vancouver  reached  the  breakfast-table  in  good 
time,  but  she  told  me  afterward  she  would  work  in  the 
old  court-yard  no  more.  The  perils  were  too  many. 

For  some  days  after  this  our  story  made  little  pro- 
gress, for  opportunities  for  consultation  did  not  occur. 
I  was  particularly  sorry  for  this,  because  I  wanted  very 
much  to  know  how  Miss  Vancouver  liked  my  indicative 
speech  and  what  she  had  made  of  it.  Early  one  after- 
noon about  this  time  our  hero,  between  whom  and  my- 
self a  slight  acquaintance  had  sprung  up,  came  to  mo 
and  said : 


"The  sea  is  so  perfectly  smooth  and  quiet  to-day 
that  I  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  take  a  row,  and 
I  have  hired  a  boat.  How  would  you  like  to  go  with 
me?" 

I  was  pleased  with  his  friendly  proposition,  and  I 
am  very  fond  of  rowing  ;  but  yet  I  hesitated  about 
accepting  the  invitation,  for  I  hoped  that  afternoon  to 
find  some  opportunity  for  consultation  in  regard  to  the 
work  on  which  I  was  engaged. 

u  The  boat  is  rather  large  for  two  persons,"  he  re- 
marked. "Have  you  any  friends  you  would  like  to 
ask  to  go  with  us?" 

This  put  a  different  phase  upon  affairs.  I  instantly 
said  that  I  thought  a  row  would  be  charming  that  after- 
noon, and  suggested  that  Mrs.  Vancouver  and  her 
daughter  might  like  to  take  advantage  of  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

The  ladies  were  quite  willing  to  go,  and  in  twenty 
minutes  we  set  off,  two  fishermen  in  red  liberty  caps 
pushing  us  from  the  pebbly  beach.  Our  hero  took  one 
oar  and  I  another,  and  we  pulled  together  very  well. 
The  ladies  sat  in  the  stern,  and  enjoyed  the  smooth  sea 
and  the  lovely  day.  We  rowed  across  the  little  bay 
and  around  a  high  promontory,  where  there  was  a 
larger  bay  with  a  small  town  in  the  distance.  The 
hero  suggested  that  we  should  land  here,  as  we  could 
get  some  good  views  from  the  rocks.  To  this  we  all 
agreed  ;  and  when  we  had  climbed  up  a  little  distance, 
Mrs.  Vancouver  found  some  wild  flowers  which  inter- 
ested her  very  much.  She  was,  in  a  certain  way,  a 
floraphobist,  and  took  an  especial  delight  in  finding  in 


OUR   STORY.  131 

foreign  countries  blossoms  which  were  the  same  as  or 
similar  to  flowers  she  was  familiar  with  in  New  Eng- 
land. Our  hero  had  also  a  fancy  for  wild  flowers, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  showed  Mrs.  Vancouver 
a  little  blossom  which  she  was  very  sure  she  had  seen 
either  at  East  Gresham  or  Milton  Centre.  Leaving 
these  two  to  their  floral  researches,  Miss  Vancouver 
and  I  climbed  higher  up  the  rocks,  where  the  view 
would  be  better.  We  found  a  pleasant  ledge ;  and 
although  we  could  not  see  what  was  going  on  below 
us,  and  the  view  was  quite  cut  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  town,  \ve  had  an  admirable  outlook  over  the  sea, 
on  which,  in  the  far  distance,  we  could  see  the  sails 
of  a  little  vessel. 

"  This  will  be  an  admirable  place  to  do  a  little 
work  on  our  story,"  I  said.  44I  have  brought  my 
blank-book  and  stylograph." 

44  And  so  have  I,"  said  she. 

I  then  told  her  that  I  had  been  thinking  over  the  mat- 
ter a  good  deal,  and  that  I  believed  in  a  short  story 
two  long  speeches  would  be  enough  for  the  hero  to 
make,  and  proposed  that  we  should  now  go  on  with  the 
second  one.  She  thought  well  of  that,  and  took  a  seat 
upon  a  rocky  projection,  while  I  sat  upon  another  quite 
near. 

41  This  second  speech,"  said  I,  u  ought  to  be  more 
than  indicative,  and  should  express  the  definite  purpose 
of  the  hero's  sentiments ;  and  I  think  there  should  be 
corresponding  expressions  from  the  heroine,  and  would 
be  glad  to  have  you  suggest  such  as  you  think  she 
would  make."  I  then  began  to  say  what  I  thought  a 


132  OUR   STORY, 

hero  ought  to  say  under  the  circumstances.  I  soon 
warmed  up  to  my  task  wonderfully,  and  expressed 
with  much  earnestness  and  ardor  the  sentiments  I 
thought  proper  for  the  occasion.  I  first  held  one  of 
Miss  Vancouver's  hands,  and  then  both  of  them,  she 
trusting  to  her  memory  in  regard  to  memoranda.  Her 
remarks  in  the  character  of  the  heroine  were,  however, 
much  briefer  than  mine,  but  they  were  enough.  If 
necessary,  they  could  be  worked  up  and  amplified.  I 
think  we  had  said  all  or  nearly  all  there  was  to  say 
when  we  heard  a  shout  from  below.  It  was  our  hero 
calling  us.  We  could  not  see  him,  but  I  knew  his 
voice.  He  shouted  again,  and  then  I  arose  from  the 
rock  on  which  Bessie  was  sitting  and  answered  him. 
He  now  made  his  appearance  some  distance  below  us, 
and  said  that  Mrs.  Vancouver  did  not  care  to  come  up 
any  higher  to  get  the  views,  and  that  she  thought  it 
would  be  better  to  reach  home  before  the  sun  should 
set. 

That  evening,  in  the  salon,  Bessie  spoke  to  me  apart. 
"  Our  hero,"  she  said,  "  is  more  than  a  hero  ;  he  is  a 
guardian  angel.  You  must  fathom  his  mystery.  I 
am  sure  that  it  is  far  better  than  any  thing  we  can 
invent  for  him.'* 

I  set  myself  to  work  to  discover,  if  possible,  not 
only  the  mystery  which  had  first  interested  us  in  our 
hero,  but  also  the  reason  and  purpose  of  his  guardian- 
angelship.  He  was  an  American,  and  now  that  I  had 
come  to  know  him  better,  I  found  him  a  very  agree- 
able talker. 


OUR   STORY.  133 


II. 

Our  hero  was  the  first  person  whom  I  told  of  my  en- 
gagement to  Bessie.  Mrs.  Vancouver  was  very  par- 
ticular that  this  state  of  affairs  should  be  made  known. 
"If  you  are  engaged,"  she  said,  u  of  course  you  can 
be  together  as  much  as  you  please.  It  is  the  custom 
in  America,  and  nobody  need  make  any  remarks." 

In  talking  to  our  hero,  I  told  him  of  a  good  many 
little  things  that  had  happened  at  various  times,  and 
endeavored  by  these  friend!}7  confidences  to  make  him 
speak  of  his  own  affairs.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  I  was  actuated  by  prying  curiosity,  but  certainly 
I  had  a  right  to  know  something  of  a  person  to  whom 
I  had  told  so  much ;  but  he  always  seemed  a  great 
deal  more  interested  in  us  than  in  himself,  and  I  took 
so  much  interest  in  his  interest,  which  was  very  kindly 
expressed,  that  his  affairs  never  came  into  our  conver- 
sation. 

But  just  as  he  was  going  away,  — he  left  the  little 
town  a  few  days  before  we  did,  —  he  told  me  that  he 
was  a  writer,  and  that  for  some  time  past  he  had  been 
engaged  upon  a  story. 

Our  story  was  never  finished.     His  was.     This  is  it. 


MR.    TOLMAN. 


MR.  TOLMAN  was  a  gentleman  whose  apparent 
age  was  of  a  varying  character.  At  times,  when 
deep  in  thought  on  business  matters  or  other  affairs, 
one  might  have  thought  him  fifty-five  or  fifty-seven,  or 
even  sixty.  Ordinarily,  however,  when  things  were 
running  along  in  a  satisfactory  and  commonplace  way, 
he  appeared  to  be  about  fifty  years  old,  while  upon 
some  extraordinary  occasions,  when  the  world  assumed 
an  unusually  attractive  aspect,  his  age  seemed  to  run 
down  to  forty-five  or  less. 

He  was  the  head  of  a  business  firm  ;  in  fact,  he  was 
the  only  member  of  it.  The  firm  was  known  as  Pusey 
and  Co.  ;  but  Pusey  had  long  been  dead,  and  the  ' 4  Co. , ' ' 
of  which  Mr.  Tolman  had  been  a  member,  was  dis- 
solved. Our  elderly  hero  having  bought  out  the  busi- 
ness, firm  name  and  all,  for  many  years  had  carried  it 
on  with  success  and  profit.  His  counting-house  was  a 
small  and  quiet  place,  but  a  great  deal  of  money  had 
been  made  in  it.  Mr.  Tolman  was  rich  —  very  rich 
indeed. 

And  yet  as  he  sat  in  his  counting-room  one  winter 
134 


ME.    TOLMAN.  135 

evening  he  looked  his  oldest.  He  had  on  his  hat  and 
his  overcoat,  his  gloves  and  his  fur  collar.  Every  one 
else  in  the  establishment  had  gone  home  ;  and  he,  with 
the  keys  in  his  hand,  was  ready  to  lock  up  and  leave 
also.  He  often  staid  later  than  any  one  else,  and  left 
the  keys  with  Mr.  Canterfield,  the  head  clerk,  as  he 
passed  his  house  on  his  way  home. 

Mr.  Tolman  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go.  He  simply 
sat  and  thought,  and  increased  his'apparent  age.  The 
truth  was  he  did  not  want  to  go  home.  He  was  tired 
of  going  home.  This  was  not  because  his  'home  was 
not  a  pleasant  one.  No  single  gentleman  in  the  city 
had  a  handsomer  or  more  comfortable  suite  of  rooms. 
It  was  not  because  he  felt  lonely,  or  regretted  that  a 
wife  and  children  did  not  brighten  and  enliven  his  home. 
He  was  perfectly  satisfied  to  be  a  bachelor.  The  con- 
ditions suited  him  exactly.  But,  in  spite  of  all  this,  he 
was  tired  of  going  home. 

"I  wish."  said  Mr.  Tolman  to  himself,  "that  I  could 
feel  some  interest  in  going  home  ;  "  and  then  he  rose 
and  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  room  ;  but 
as  that  did  not  seem  to  give  him  any  more  interest  in 
the  matter,  he  sat  down  again.  "  I  wish  it  were  neces- 
sary for  me  to  go  home,"  said  he;  "but  it  isn't;" 
and  then  he  fell  again  to  thinking.  "What  I  need," 
he  said,  after  a  while,  "is  to  depend  more  upon  my- 
self —  to  feel  that  I  am  necessary  to  myself.  Just  now 
I'm  not.  I'll  stop  going  home  —  at  least  in  this  way. 
Where's  the  sense  in  envying  other  men,  when  I  can 
have  all  that  they  have,  just  as  well  as  not?  And  I'll 
have  it,  too,"  said  Mr.  Tolman,  as  he  went  out  and 


136  MR.    TOLMAN. 

locked  the  doors.  Once  in  the  streets,  and  walking 
rapidly,  his  ideas  shaped  themselves  easily  and  readily 
into  a  plan  which,  by  the  time  he  reached  the  house  of 
his  head  clerk,  was  quite  matured.  Mr.  Canterfield 
was  just  going  down  to  dinner  as  his  employer  rang 
the  bell,  so  he  opened  the  door  himself.  "  I  will  detain 
you  but  a  minute  or  two,"  said  Mr.  Tolman,  handing 
the  keys  to  Mr.  Canterfield.  "  Shall  we  step  into  the 
parlor?" 

When  his  employer  had  gone,  and  Mr.  Canterfield 
had  joined  his  family  at  the  dinner  table,  his  wife  im- 
mediately asked  him  what  Mr.  Tolman  wanted. 

"  Only  to  say  that  he  is  going  away  to-morrow,  and 
that  I  am  to  attend  to  the  business,  and  send  his  per- 
sonal letters  to ,"  naming  a  city  not  a  hundred 

miles  away. 

"  How  long  is  he  going  to  stay  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  say,"  answered  Mr.  Canterfield. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  he  ought  to  do,"  said  the  lady. 
"  He  ought  to  make  you  a  partner  in  the  firm,  and  then 
he  could  go  away  and  stay  as  long  as  he  pleased." 

"  He  can  do  that  now,"  returned  her  husband.  "  He 
has  made  a  good  many  trips  since  I  have  been  with  him, 
and  things  have  gone  on  very  much  in  the  same  way  as 
when  he  was  here.  He  knows  that." 

"  But  still  you'd  like  to  be  a  partner?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Canterfield. 

"And  common  gratitude  ought  to  prompt  him  to 
make  you  one,"  said  his  wife. 

Mr.  Tolman  went  home  and  wrote  a  will.  He  left 
all  his  property,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  legacies, 


MR.    TOLNAN.  137 

to  the  richest  and  most  powerful  charitable  organiza- 
tion in  the  country. 

"  People  will  think  I'm  crazy,"  said  he  to  himself ; 
"  and  if  I  should  die  while  I  am  carrying  out  my  plan, 
I'll  leave  the  task  of  defending  my  sanity  to  people 
who  are  able  to  make  a  good  fight  for  me."  And  be- 
fore he  went  to  bed  he  had  his  will  signed  and  witnessed. 

The  next  day  he  packed  a  trunk  and  left  for  the  neigh- 
boring city.  His  apartments  were  to  be  kept  in  readi- 
ness for  his  return  at  any  time.  If  you  had  seen  him 
walking  over  to  the  railroad  de*pot,  you  would  have 
taken  him  for  a  man  of  forty-five. 

When  he  arrived  at  his  destination,  Mr.  Tolman  es- 
tablished himself  temporarily  at  a  hotel,  and  spent  the 
next  three  or  four  days  in  walking  about  the  city  look- 
ing for  what  he  wanted.  What  he  wanted  was  rather 
difficult  to  define,  but  the  way  in  which  he  put  the  mat- 
ter to  himself  was  something  like  this  : 

"  I'd  like  to  find  a  snug  little  place  where  I  can  live 
and  carry  on  some  business  which  I  can  attend  to  my- 
self, and  which  will  bring  me  into  contact  with  people 
of  all  sorts  —  people  who  will  interest  me.  It  must  be 
a  small  business,  because  I  don't  want  to  have  to  work 
very  hard,  and  it  must  be  snug  and  comfortable,  be- 
cause I  want  to  enjoy  it.  I  would  like  a  shop  of  some 
sort,  because  that  brings  a  man  face  to  face  with  his 
fellow-creatures. ' ' 

The  city  in  which  he  was  walking  about  was  one  of 
the  best  places  in  the  country  in  which  to  find  the  place 
of  business  he  desired.  It  was  full  of  independent 
little  shops.  But  Mr.  Tolman  could  not  readily  find 


138  ME.    TOLMAN. 

one  which  resembled  his  ideal.  A  small  dry-goods  es- 
tablishment seemed  to  presuppose  a  female  proprietor. 
A  grocery  store  would  give  him  many  interesting  cus- 
tomers ;  but  he  did  not  know  much  about  groceries, 
and  the  business  did  not  appear  to  him  to  possess  any 
aesthetic  features.  He  was  much  pleased  by  a  small 
shop  belonging  to  a  taxidermist.  It  was  exceedingly 
cosey,  and  the  business  was  probably  not  so  great  as  to 
overwork  any  one.  He  might  send  the  birds  and  beasts 
which  were  brought  to  be  stuffed  to  some  practical 
operator,  and  have  him  put  them  in  proper  condition 
for  the  customers.  He  might —  But  no  ;  it  would  be 
very  unsatisfactory  to  engage  in  a  business  of  which  he 
knew  absolutely  nothing.  A  taxidermist  ought  not  to 
blush  with  ignorance  when  asked  some  simple  question 
about  a  little  dead  bird  or  a  defunct  fish.  And  so  he 
tore  himself  from  the  window  of  this  fascinating  place, 
where,  he  fancied,  had  his  education  been  differently 
managed,  he  could  in  time  have  shown  the  world  the 
spectacle  of  a  cheerful  and  unblighted  Mr.  Venus. 

The  shop  which  at  last  appeared  to  suit  him  best 
was  one  which  he  had  passed  and  looked  at  several 
times  before  it  struck  him  favorably.  It  was  in  a  small 
brick  house  in  a  side  street,  but  not  far  from  one  of  the 
main  business  avenues  of  the  city.  The  shop  seemed 
devoted  to  articles  of  stationery  and  small  notions  of 
various  kinds  not  easy  to  be  classified.  He  had  stopped 
to  look  at  three  penknives  fastened  to  a  card,  which 
was  propped  up  in  the  little  show-window,  supported 
on  one  side  by  a  chess-board  with  "  History  of  Asia  "  in 
gilt  letters  oil  the  back,  and  on  the  other  by  a  small 


MR.    TOLMAN.  139 

violin  labelled  u  1  dollar  ;  "  and  as  he  gazed  past  these 
articles  into  the  interior  of  the  shop,  which  was  now 
lighted  up,  it  gradually  dawned  upon  him  that  it  was 
something  like  his  ideal  of  an  attractive  and  interest- 
ing business  place.  At  any  rate  he  would  go  in  and 
look  at  it.  He  did  not  care  for  a  violin,  even  at  the  low 
price  marked  on  the  one  in  the  window,  but  a  new 
pocket-knife  might  be  useful ;  so  he  walked  in  and 
asked  to  look  at  pocket-knives. 

The  shop  was  in  charge  of  a  very  pleasant  old  lady 
of  about  sixty,  who  sat  sewing  behind  the  little  count- 
er. While  she  went  to  the  window,  and  very  care- 
fully reached  over  the  articles  displayed  therein  to  get 
the  card  of  penknives,  Mr.  Tolman  looked  about  him. 
The  shop  was  quite  small,  but  there  seemed  to  be  a 
good  deal  in  it.  There  were  shelves  behind  the  count- 
er, and  there  were  shelves  on  the  opposite  wall,  and 
they  all-  seemed  well  filled  with  something  or  other. 
In  the  corner  near  the  old  lady's  chair  was  a  little  coal 
stove  with  a  bright  fire  in  it,  and  at  the  back  of  the 
shop,  at  the  top  of  two  steps,  was  a  glass  door  partly 
open,  through  which  he  saw  a  small  room,  with  a  red 
carpet  on  the  floor,  and  a  little  table  apparently  set 
for  a  meal. 

Mr.  Tolman  looked  at  the  knives  when  the  old  lady 
showed  them  to  him,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  consid- 
eration he  selected  one  which  he  thought  would  be  a 
good  knife  to  give  to  a  boy.  Then  he  looked  over  some 
things  in  the  way  of  paper-cutters,  whist-markers,  and 
such  small  matters,  which  were  in  a  glass  case  on  the 
counter ;  and  while  he  looked  at  them  he  talked  to 
the  old  lady. 


140  MR.    TOLMAN. 

She  was  a  friendly,  sociable  body,  and  very  glad  to 
have  any  one  to  talk  to,  and  so  it  was  not  at  all  dif- 
ficult for  Mr.  Tolman,  by  some  general  remarks,  to 
draw  from  her  a  great  many  points  about  herself  and 
her  shop.  She  was  a  widow,  with  a  son  who,  from 
her  remarks,  must  have  been  forty  years  old.  He  was 
connected  with  a  mercantile  establishment,  and  they 
had  lived  here  for  a  long  time.  While  her  son  was  a 
salesman,  and  came  home  every  evening,  this  was  very 
pleasant  ;  but  after  he  became  a  commercial  traveller, 
and  was  away  from  the  city  for  months  at  a  time,  she 
did  not  like  it  at  all.  It  was  very  lonely  for  her. 

Mr.  Tolman's  heart  rose  within  him,  but  he  did  not 
interrupt  her. 

"  If  I  could  do  it,"  said  she,  "  I  would  give  up  this 
place,  and  go  and  live  with  my  sister  in  the  country. 
It  would  be  better  for  both  of  us,  and  Henry  could 
come  there  just  as  well  as  here  when  he  gets  back  from 
his  trips." 

"  Why  don't  you  sell  out  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Tolman,  a 
little  fearfully,  for  he  began  to  think  that  all  this  was 
too  easy  sailing  to  be  entirely  safe. 

uThat  would  not  be  easy,"  said  she,  with  a  smile. 
"  It  might  be  a  long  time  before  we  could  find  any  one 
who  would  want  to  take  the  place.  We  have  a  fair 
trade  in  the  store,  but  it  isn't  what  it  used  to  be  when 
times  were  better;  and  the  library  is  falling  off  too. 
Most  of  the  books  are  getting  pretty  old,  and  it  don't 
pay  to  spend  much  money  for  new  ones  now." 

4 'The  library  !  "  said  Mr.  Tolman.  "  Have  you  a 
library?" 


ME.    TOLMAN.  141 

"  Oh,  yes/'  replied  the  old  lady.  "  I've  had  a  circu- 
lating library  here  for  nearly  fifteen  years.  There  it  is 
on  those  two  upper  shelves  behind  you." 

Mr.  Tolman  tuined,  and  beheld  two  long  rows  of 
books,  in  brown  paper  covers,  with  a  short  step-ladder 
standing  near  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  by  which 
these  shelves  might  be  reached.  This  pleased  him 
greatly.  He  had  had  no  idea  that  there  was  a  library 
here. 

"  I  declare  !  "  said  he.  "  It  must  be  very  pleasant 
to  manage  a  circulating  library  —  a  small  one  like  this, 
I  mean.  I  shouldn't  mind  going  into  a  business  of  the 
kind  nryself." 

The  old  lady  looked  up,  surprised.  Did  he  wish  to 
go  into  business  ?  She  had  not  supposed  that,  just 
from  looking  at  him. 

Mr.  Tolman  explained  his  views  to  her.  He  did  not 
tell  what  he  had  been  doing  in  the  way  of  business,  or 
what  Mr.  Canterfield  was  doing  for  him  now.  He 
merely  stated  his  present  wishes,  and  acknowledged  to 
her  that  it  was  the  attractiveness  of  her  establishment 
that  had  led  him  to  come  in. 

u  Then  you  do  not  want  the  penknife  ?"  she  said, 
quickly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  he  ;  "  and  I  really  believe,  if 
we  can  come  to  terms,  that  I  would  like  the  two  other 
knives,  together  with  the  rest  of  your  stock  in  trade." 

The  old  lady  laughed  a  little  nervously.  She  hoped 
very  much  indeed  that  they  could  come  to  terms.  She 
brought  a  chair  from  the  back  room,  and  Mr.  Tolman 
sat  down  with  her  by  the  stove  to  talk  it  over.  Few 


142  MR.    TOLMAN. 

customers  came  in  to  interrupt  them,  and  they  talked 
the  matter  over  very  thoroughly.  They  both  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  about 
terms,  nor  about  Mr.  Tolman's  ability  to  carry  on  the 
business  after  a  very  little  instruction  from  the  present 
proprietress.  When  Mr.  Tolman  left,  it  was  with  the 
understanding  that  he  was  to  call  again  in  a  couple  of 
days,  when  the  son  Henry  would  be  at  home,  and  mat- 
ters could  be  definitely  arranged. 

When  the  three  met,  the  bargain  was  soon  struck. 
As  each  party  was  so  desirous  of  making  it,  few  diffi- 
culties were  interposed.  The  old  lady,  indeed,  was  in 
favor  of  some  delay  in  the  transfer  of  the  establish- 
ment, as  she  would  like  to  clean  and  dust  every  shelf 
and  corner  and  every  article  in  the  place  ;  but  Mr.  Tol- 
man was  in  a  hurry  to  take  possession  ;  and  as  the  son 
Henry  would  have  to  start  off  on  another  trip  in  a 
short  time,  he  wanted  to  see  his  mother  moved  and  set- 
tled before  he  left.  There  was  not  much  to  move  but 
trunks  and  bandboxes,  and  some  antiquated  pieces  of 
furniture  of  special  value  to  the  old  lady,  for  Mr.  Tol- 
man insisted  on  buying  every  thing  in  the  house,  just 
as  it  stood.  The  whole  thing  did  not  cost  him,  he  said 
to  himself,  as  much  as  some  of  his  acquaintances 
would  pay  for  a  horse.  The  methodical  son  Henry 
took  an  account  of  stock,  and  Mr.  Tolman  took  sev- 
eral lessons  from  the  old  lady,  in  which  she  explained 
to  him  how  to  find  out  the  selling  prices  of  the  various 
articles  from  the  marks  on  the  little  tags  attached  to 
them  ;  and  she  particularly  instructed  him  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  circulating  library.  She  informed  him 


MR.    TOLMAN.  143 

of  the  character  of  the  books,  and,  as  far  as  possible, 
of  the  character  of  the  regular  patrons.  She  told  him 
whom  he  might  trust  to  take  out  a  book  without  pay- 
ing for  the  one  brought  in,  if  they  didn't  happen  to 
have  the  change  with  them,  and  she  indicated  with  little 
crosses  opposite  their  names  those  persons  who  should 
be  required  to  pay  cash  down  for  what  they  had  had, 
before  receiving  further  benefits. 

It  was  astonishing  to  see  what  interest  Mr.  Tolman 
took  in  all  this.  He  was  really  anxious  to  meet  some 
of  the  people  about  whom  the  old  lady  discoursed.  He 
tried,  too,  to  remember  a  few  of  the  many  things  she 
told  him  of  her  methods  of  buying  and  selling,  and  the 
general  management  of  her  shop  ;  and  he  probably  did 
not  forget  more  than  three-fourths  of  what  she  told 
him. 

Finally,  every  thing  was  settled  to  the  satisfaction  of 
Jhe  two  male  parties  to  the  bargain  —  although  the  old 
lady  thought  of  a  hundred  things  she  would  yet  like  to 
do  —  and  one  fine  frosty  afternoon  a  car-load  of  furni- 
ture and  baggage  left  the  door,  the  old  lady  and  her 
son  took  leave  of  the  old  place,  and  Mr.  Tolmaii  was 
left  sitting  behind  the  little  counter,  the  sole  manager 
and  proprietor  of  a  circulating  library  and  a  stationery 
and  notion  shop.  He  laughed  when  he  thought  of  it, 
but  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  felt  very  well  satisfied. 

u  There  is  nothing  really  crazy  about  it,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  If  there  is  a  thing  that  I  think  I  would 
like,  and  I  can  afford  to  have  it,  and  there's  no  harm 
in  it,  why  not  have  it  ?  " 

There  was  nobody  there   to   say  any  thing  against 


144  ME.    TOLMAN. 

this ;  so  Mr.  Tolman  rubbed  his  hands  again  before 
the  fire,  and  rose  to  walk  up  and  down  his  shop,  and 
wonder  who  would  be  his  first  customer. 

In  the  course  of  twenty  minutes  a  little  boy  opened 
the  door  and  came  in.  Mr.  Tolman  hastened  behind 
the  counter  to  receive  his  commands.  The  little  boj 
wanted  two  sheets  of  note-paper  and  an  envelope. 

"  Any  particular  kind?  "  asked  Mr.  Tolman. 

The  boy  didn't  know  of  any  particular  variety  being 
desired.  He  thought  the  same  kind  she  always  got 
would  do ;  and  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mr.  Tolman, 
evidently  wondering  at  the  change  in  the  shop-keeper, 
but  asking  no  questions. 

"  You  are  a  regular  customer,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr. 
Tolman,  opening  several  boxes  of  paper  which  he  had 
taken  down  from  the  shelves.  "•  i  have  just  begun 
business  here,  and  don't  know  what  kind  of  paper  you 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  buying.  But  I  suppose  this 
will  do ;  "  and  he  took  out  a  couple  of  sheets  of  the 
best,  with  an  envelope  to  match.  These  he  carefully 
tied  up  in  a  piece  of  thin  brown  paper,  and  gave  to  the 
boy,  who  handed  him  three  cents.  Mr.  Tolman  took 
them,  smiled,  and  then  having  made  a  rapid  calcula- 
tion, he  called  to  the  boy,  who  was  just  opening  the 
door,  and  gave  him  back  one  cent. 

"  You  have  paid  me  too  much,"  he  said. 

The  boy  took  the  cent,  looked  at  Mr.  Tolman,  and 
then  got  out  of  the  store  as  quickly  as  he  could. 

"  Such  profits  as  that  are  enormous,"  said  Mr.  To! 
man;  "but  I  suppose  the  small  sales  balance  them.'5 
This  Mr.  Tolman  subsequently  found  to  be  the  case. 


ME.    TOLMAN.  145 

One  or  two  other  customers  came  in  in  the  course  of 
the  afternoon,  and  about  dark  the  people  who  took  out 
books  began  to  arrive.  These  kept  Mr.  Tolman  very 
busy.  He  not  only  had  to  do  a  good  deal  of  entering 
and  cancelling,  but  he  had  to  answer  a  great  many 
questions  about  the  change  in  proprietorship,  and  the 
probability  of  his  getting  in  some  new  books,  with 
suggestions  as  to  the  quantitj'  and  character  of  these, 
mingled  with  a  few  dissatisfied  remarks  in  regard  to 
the  volumes  already  on  hand. 

Every  one  seemed  sorry  that  the  old  lady  had  gone 
away ;  but  Mr.  Tolman  was  so  pleasant  and  anxious  to 
please,  and  took  such  an  interest  in  their  selection  of 
books,  that  only  one  of  the  subscribers  appeared  to 
take  the  change  very  much  to  heart.  This  was  a 
young  man  who  was  forty-three  cents  in  arrears.  He 
was  a  long  time  selecting  a  book,  and  when  at  last  he 
brought  it  to  Mr.  Tolman  to  be  entered,  he  told  him 
in  a  low  voice  that  he  hoped  there  would  be  no  objec- 
tion to  letting  his  account  run  on  for  a  little  while 
longer.  On  the  first  of  the  month  he  would  settle  it, 
and  then  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  pay  cash  whenever  he 
brought  in  a  book. 

Mr.  Tolman  looked  for  his  name  on  the  old  lady's 
list,  and  finding  no  cross  against  it,  told  him  that  it 
was  all  right,  and  that  the  first  of  the  month  would  do 
very  well.  The  young  man  went  away  perfectly  sat- 
isfied with  the  new  librarian.  Thus  did  Mr.  Tolman 
begin  to  build  up  his  popularity.  As  the  evening  grew 
on  he  found  himself  becoming  very  hungry ;  but  he  did 
not  like  to  shut  up  the  shop,  for  every  now  and  then 


146  ME.   TOLMAN. 

some  one  dropped  in,  sometimes  to  ask  what  time  it 
was,  and  sometimes  to  make  a  little  purchase,  while 
there  were  still  some  library  patrons  coming  in  at 
intervals. 

However,  taking  courage  during  a  short  rest  from 
customers,  he  put  up  the  shutters,  locked  the  door, 
and  hurried  off  to  a  hotel,  where  he  partook  of  a  meal 
such  as  few  keepers  of  little  shops  ever  think  of  in- 
dulging in. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Tolman  got  his  own  break- 
fast. This  was  delightful.  He  had  seen  how  cosily 
the  old  lady  had  spread  her  table  in  the  little  back 
room,  where  there  was  a  stove  suitable  for  any  cook- 
ing he  might  wish  to  indulge  in,  and  he  longed  for 
such  a  cosey  meal.  There  were  plenty  of  stock  pro- 
visions in  the  house,  which  he  had  purchased  with  the 
rest  of  the  goods ;  and  he  went  out  and  bought  him- 
self a  fresh  loaf  of  bread.  Then  he  broiled  a  piece  of 
ham,  made  some  good  strong  tea,  boiled  some  eggs, 
and  had  a  breakfast  on  the  little  round  table,  which, 
though  plain  enough,  he  enjoyed  more  than  any  break- 
fast at  his  club  which  he  could  remember.  He  had 
opened  the  shop,  and  sat  facing  the  glass  door,  hop- 
ing, almost,  that  there  would  be  some  interruption  to 
his  meal.  It  would  seem  so  much  more  proper  in  that 
sort  of  business  if  he  had  to  get  up  and  go  attend  to 
a  customer. 

Before  evening  of  that  day  Mr.  Tolman  became  con- 
vinced that  he  would  soon  be  obliged  to  employ  a  boy 
or  some  one  to  attend  to  the  establishment  during  his 
absence.  After  breakfast,  a  woman  recommended  by 


MR.    TOLMAN.  147 

the  old  lady  came  to  make  his  bed  and  clean  up  gener- 
ally, but  when  she  had  gone  he  was  left  alone  with  his 
shop.  He  determined  not  to  allow  this  responsibility 
to  injure  his  health,  and  so  at  one  o'clock  boldly  locked 
the  shop  door  and  went  out  to  his  lunch.  He  hoped 
that  no  one  would  call  during  his  absence,  but  when 
he  returned  he  found  a  little  girl  with  a  pitcher  stand- 
ing at  the  door.  She  came  to  borrow  half  a  pint  of 
milk. 

4 'Milk!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tolman,  in  surprise. 
"Why,  my  child,  I  have  no  milk.  I  don't  even  use 
it  in  my  tea." 

The  little  girl  looked  very  much  disappointed.  "Is 
Mrs.  Walker  gone  away  for  good?  "  said  she. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Tolman.  "But  I  would  be 
just  as  willing  to  lend  you  the  milk  as  she  would  be,  if 
I  had  any.  Is  there  any  place  near  here  where  you 
can  buy  milk?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  girl ;  "  you  can  get  it  round  in 
the  market-house." 

"  How  much  would  half  a  pint  cost?  "  he  asked. 

"  Three  cents,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  Well, -then,"  said  Mr.  Tolman,  "here  are  three 
cents.  You  can  go  and  buy  the  milk  for  me,  and  then 
you  can  borrow  it.  Will  that  suit?  " 

The  girl  thought  it  would  suit  very  well,  and  away 
she  went. 

Even  this  little  incident  pleased  Mr.  Tolman.  It 
was  so  very  novel.  When  he  came  back  from  his 
dinner  in  the  evening,  he  found  two  circulating  library 
subscribers  stamping  their  feet  on  the  door-step,  am) 


148  MR.    TOLMAN. 

he  afterward  heard  that  several  others  had  called  and 
gone  away.  It  would  certainly  injure  the  library  if  he 
suspended  business  at  meal-times.  He  could  easily 
have  his  choice  of  a  hundred  boys  if  he  chose  to  adver- 
tise for  one,  but  he  shrank  from  having  a  youngster  in 
the  place.  It  would  interfere  greatly  with  his  cosiness 
and  his  experiences.  He  might  possibly  find  a  boy 
who  went  to  school,  and  who  would  be  willing  to  come 
at  noon  and  in  the  evening  if  he  were  paid  enough. 
But  it  would  have  to  be  a  very  steady  and  responsible 
boy.  He  would  think  it  over  before  taking  any  steps. 

He  thought  it  over  for  a  day  or  two,  but  he  did  not 
spend  his  whole  time  in  doing  so.  When  he  had  no 
customers,  he  sauntered  about  in  the  little  parlor  over 
the  shop,  with  its  odd  old  furniture,  its  quaint  prints 
on  the  walls,  and  its  absurd  ornaments  on  the  mantel- 
piece. The  other  little  rooms  seemed  almost  as  funny 
to  him,  and  he  was  sorry  when  the  bell  on  the  shop 
door  called  him  down  from  their  contemplation.  It 
was  pleasant  to  him  to  think  that  he  owned  all  these 
odd  things.  The  ownership  of  the  varied  goods  in  the 
shop  also  gave  him  an  agreeable  feeling,  which  none 
of  his  other  possessions  had  ever  afforded  him.  It 
was  all  so  odd  and  novel. 

He  liked  much  to  look  over  the  books  in  the  library. 
Many  of  them  were  old  novels,  the  names  of  which 
were  familiar  enough  to  him,  but  which  he  had  never 
read.  He  determined  to  read  some  of  them  as  soon  as 
he  felt  fixed  and  settled. 

In  looking  over  the  book  in  which  the  names  and 
accounts  of  the  subscribers  were  entered,  he  amused 


MR.    TOLMAN.  149 

himself  by  wondering  what  sort  of  persons  they  were 
who  had  out  certain  books.  Who,  for  instance,  wanted 
to  read  "  The  Book  of  Cats  ;  "  and  who  could  possibly 
care  for  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho?"  But  the 
unknown  person  in  regard  to  whom  Mr.  Tolman  felt 
the  greatest  curiosity  was  the  subscriber  who  now  had 
in  his  possession  a  volume  entitled  "Dormstock's 
Logarithms  of  the  Diapason." 

"How  on  earth,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tolman,  "did 
such  a  book  get  into  this  library ;  and  where  on  earth 
did  the  person  spring  from  who  would  want  to  take  it 
out?  And  not  only  want  to  take  it,"  he  continued, 
as  he  examined  the  entry  regarding  the  volume,  "  but 
come  and  have  it  renewed  one,  two,  three,  four  —  nine 
times  !  He  has  had  that  book  for  eighteen  weeks  !  ' ' 

Without  exactly  making  up  his  mind  to  do  so,  Mr. 
Tolman  deferred  taking  steps  toward  getting  an  assist- 
ant until  P.  Glascow,  the  person  in  question,  should 
make  an  appearance,  and  it  was  nearly  time  for  the 
book  to  be  brought  in  again. 

"  If  I  get  a  boy  now,"  thought  Mr.  Tolman,  "  Glas- 
cow will  be  sure  to  come  and  bring  the  book  while  I 
am  out." 

In  almost  exactly  two  weeks  from  the  date  of  the 
last  renewal  of  the  book,  P.  Glascow  came  in.  It 
was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  Mr.  Tolman  was 
alone.  This  investigator  of  musical  philosophy  was 
a  quiet  young  man  of  about  thirty,  wearing  a  light 
brown  cloak,  and  carrying  under  one  arm  a  large  book. 

P.  Glascow  was  surprised  when  he  heard  of  the 
change  in  the  proprietorship  of  the  library.  Still  he 


150  MB.    TOLMAN. 

hoped  that  there  would  be  no  objection  to  his  renewing 
the  book  which  he  had  with  him,  and  which  he  had 
taken  out  some  time  ago. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tolman,  "none  in  the  world. 
In  fact,  I  don't  suppose  there  are  any  other  subscribers 
who  would  want  it.  I  have  had  the  curiosity  to  look 
to  see  if  it  had  ever  been  taken  out  before,  and  I  find 
it  has  not." 

The  young  man  smiled  quietly.  "No,"  said  he, 
"  I  suppose  not.  It  is  not  every  one  who  would  care 
to  study  the  higher  mathematics  of  music,  especially 
when  treated  as  Dormstock  treats  the  subject." 

"He  seems  to  go  into  it  pretty  deeply,"  remarked 
Mr.  Tolman,  who  had  taken  up  the  book.  "At  least 
I  should  think  so,  judging  from  all  these  calculations, 
and  problems,  and  squares,  and  cubes." 

"Indeed  he  does,"  said  Glascow ;  "and  although 
I  have  had  the  book  some  months,  and  have  more 
reading  time  at  my  disposal  than  most  persons,  I  have 
only  reached  the  fifty-sixth  page,  and  doubt  if  I  shall 
not  have  to  review  some  of  that  before  I  can  feel  that 
I  thoroughly  understand  it." 

' '  And  there  are  three  hundred  and  forty  pages  in 
all,"  said  Mr.  Tolman,  compassionately. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other;  "but  I  am  quite  sure 
that  the  matter  will  grow  easier  as  I  proceed.  I  have 
found  that  out  from  what  I  have  already  done." 

"You  say  you  have  a  good  deal  of  leisure?"  re- 
marked Mr.  Tplman.  "  Is  the  musical  business  dull 
at  present?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  the  musical  business,"  said  Glas- 


MR.    TOLMAN.  151 

cow.  "I  have  a  great  love  for  music,  and  wish  to 
thoroughly  understand  it;  but  my  business  is  quite 
different.  I  am  a  night  druggist,  and  that  is  the  rea- 
son I  have  so  much  leisure  for  reading." 

"  A  night  druggist?  "  repeated  Mr.  Tolman,  inquir- 
ingly. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  other.  "  I  am  in  a  large  down- 
town drug-store,  which  is  kept  open  all  night,  and  I  go 
on  duty  after  the  day-clerks  leave." 

"  And  does  that  give  you  more  leisure?  "  asked  Mr. 
Tolman. 

"  It  seems  to,"  answered  Glascow.  "  I  sleep  until 
about  noon,  and  then  I  have  the  rest  of  the  day,  until 
seven  o'clock,  to  myself.  I  think  that  people  who 
work  at  night  can  make  a  more  satisfactory  use  of 
their  own  time  than  those  who  work  in  the  daytime. 
In  the  summer  I  can  take  a  trip  on  the  river,  or  go 
somewhere  out  of  town,  every  day,  if  I  like." 

"  Daylight  is  more  available  for  many  things,  that  is 
true,"  said  Mr.  Tolman.  "  But  is  it  not  dreadfully 
lonely  sitting  in  a  drug-store  all  night?  There  can't 
be  many  people  to  come  to  buy  medicine  at  night.  I 
thought  there  was  generally  a  night-bell  to  drug-stores, 
by  which  a  clerk  could  be  awakened  if  any  body 
wanted  any  thing." 

"  It's  not  very  lonely  in  our  store  at  night,"  said 
Glascow.  "  In  fact,  it's  often  more  lively  then  than  in 
the  daytime.  You  see,  we  are  right  down  among  the 
newspaper  offices,  and  there's  always  somebody  com- 
ing in  for  soda-water,  or  cigars,  or  something  or  other. 
The  store  is  a  bright  warm  place  for  the  night  editors 


152  Mlt.    TOLNAN. 

and  reporters  to  meet  together  and  talk  and  drink  hot 
soda,  and  there's  always  a  knot  of  'em  around  the 
stove  about  the  time  the  papers  begin  to  go  to  press. 
And  they're  a  lively  set,  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  I've 
heard  some  of  the  best  stories  I  ever  heard  in  my  life 
told  in  our  place  after  three  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"A  strange  life!"  said  Mr.  Tolman.  u  Do  you 
know,  I  never  thought  that  people  amused  themselves 
in  that  way.  And  night  after  night,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  sir,  night  after  night,  Sundays  and  all." 

The  night  druggist  now  took  up  his  book. 

44  Going  home  to  read?  "  asked  Mr.  Tolman. 

44 Well,  no,"  said  the  other;  "  it's  rather  cold  this 
afternoon  to  read.  I  think  I'll  take  a  brisk  walk." 

"Can't  you  leave  your  book  until  you  return?" 
asked  Mr.  Tolman  ;  "  that  is,  if  you  will  come  back 
this  way.  It's  an  awkward  book  to  carry  about." 

44  Thank  you,  I  will,"  said  Glascow.  u  I  shall  come 
back  this  way." 

When  he  had  gone,  Mr.  Tolman  took  up  the  book, 
and  began  to  look  over  it  more  carefully  than  he  had 
done  before.  But  his  examination  did  not  last  long. 

44  How  anybody  of  common-sense  can  take  any  in- 
terest in  this  stuff  is  beyond  my 'comprehension,"  said 
Mr.  Tolman,  as  he  closed  the  book  and  put  it  on  a 
little  shelf  behind  the  counter. 

When  Glascow  came  back,  Mr.  Tolman  asked  him 
to  stay  and  warm  himself;  and  then,  after  they  had 
talked  for  a  short  time,  Mr.  Tolman  began  to  feel  hun- 
gry. He  had  his  winter  appetite,  and  had  lunched 
early.  So  said  he  to  the  night  druggist,  who  had 


MR.    TOLMAN.  153 

opened  his  "  Dormstock,"  "  How  would  you  like  to  sit 
here  and  read  a  while,  while  I  go  and  get  my  dinner  ? 
I  will  light  the  gas,  and  you  can  be  very  comfortable 
here,  if  you  are  not  in  a  hurry." 

P.  Glascow  was  in  no  hurry  at  all,  and  was  very 
glad  to  have  some  quiet  reading  by  a  warm  fire ;  and 
so  Mr.  Tolman  left  him,  feeling  perfectly  confident 
that  a  man  who  had  been  allowed  by  the  old  lady  to 
renew  a  book  nine  times  must  be  perfect!}7  trustworthy. 

When  Mr.  Tolman  returned,  the  two  had  some  fur- 
ther conversation  in  the  corner  by  the  little  stove. 

"  It  must  be  rather  annoying,"  said  the  night  drug- 
gist, "  not  to  be  able  to  go  out  to  your  meals  without 
shutting  up  your  shop.  If  you  like,"  said  he,  rather 
hesitatingly,  "•  I  will  stop  in  about  this  time  in  the 
afternoon,  and  stay  here  while  you  go  to  dinner.  I'll 
be  glad  to  do  this  until  you  get  an  assistant.  I  can 
easily  attend  to  most  people  who  come  in,  and  others 
can  wait." 

Mr.  Tolman  jumped  at  this  proposition.  It  was 
exactly  what  he  wanted. 

So  P.  Glascow  came  every  afternoon  and  read 
u  Dormstock  "  while  Mr.  Tolman  went  to  dinner  ;  and 
before  long  he  came  at  lunch-time  also.  It  was  just 
as  convenient  as  not,  he  said.  He  had  finished  his 
breakfast,  and  would  like  to  read  awhile.  Mr.  Tolman 
fancied  that  the  night  druggist's  lodgings  were,  per- 
haps, not  very  well  warmed,  which  idea  explained  the 
desire  to  walk  rather  than  read  on  a  cold  afternoon. 
Glascow' s  name  was  entered  on  the  free  list,  and  he 
always  took  away  the  "  Dormstock  "  at  night,  because 


154  ME.    TOLMAN. 

he  might  have  a  chance  of  looking  into  it  at  the  store, 
when  custom  began  to  grow  slack  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  early  morning. 

One  afternoon  there  came  into  the  shop  a  young 
lad}7,  who  brought  back  two  books  which  she  had  had 
for  more  than  a  month.  She  made  no  excuses  for 
keeping  the  books  longer  than  the  prescribed  time,  but 
simply  handed  them  in  and  paid  her  fine.  Mr.  Tol- 
man  did  not  like  to  take  this  money,  for  it  was  the  first 
of  the  kind  he  had  received  ;  but  the  young  lady  looked 
as  if  she  was  well  able  to  afford  the  luxury  of  keeping 
books  over  their  time,  and  business  was  business.  So 
he  gravely  gave  her  her  change.  Then  she  said  she 
would  like  to  take  out  "Dormstock's  Logarithms  of 
the  Diapason." 

Mr.  Tolman  stared  at  her.  She  was  a  bright,  hand- 
some young  lady,  and  looked  as  if  she  had  very  good 
sense.  He  could  not  understand  it.  But  he  told  her 
the  book  was  out. 

"Out!"  she  said.  "Why,  it's  always  out.  It 
seems  strange  to  me  that  there  should  be  such  a  de- 
mand for  that  book.  1  have  been  trying  to  get  it  for 
ever  so  long." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Mr.  Tolmau ;  "but  it  is  cer- 
tainly in  demand.  Did  Mrs.  Walker  ever  make  you 
any  promises  about  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  she;  "but  I  thought  my  turn  would 
come  around  some  time.  And  I  particularly  want  the 
book  just  now." 

Mr.  Tolman  felt  somewhat  troubled.  He  knew  that 
the  night  druggist  ought  not  to  monopolize  the  volume, 


MB.    TOLMAN.  155 

and  yet  he  did  not  wish  to  disoblige  one  who  was  so 
useful  to  him,  and  who  took  such  an  earnest  interest  in 
the  book.  And  he  could  not  temporize  with  the  young 
lady,  and  say  that  he  thought  the  book  would  soon  be 
in.  He  knew  it  would  not.  There  were  three  hun- 
dred and  forty  pages  of  it.  So  he  merely  remarked 
that  he  was  sorry. 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  very  sorry.  It 
so  happens  that  just  now  I  have  a  peculiar  opportunity 
for  studying  that  book,  which  may  not  occur  again." 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  Tolman's  sympathetic 
face  which  seemed  to  invite  her  confidence,  and  she 
continued. 

"I  am  a  teacher,"  she  said,  "and  oc  account  of 
certain  circumstances  I  have  a  holiday  for  a  month, 
which  I  intended  to  give  up  almost  entirely  to  the 
study  of  music,  and  I  particularly  wanted  "  Dorm- 
stock."  Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  of  its  early 
return,  and  will  you  reserve  it  for  me?  " 

"  Reserve  it !  "  said  Mr.  Tolman.  "  Most  certainly 
I  will."  And  then  he  reflected  a  second  or  two.  "  If 
you  will  come  here  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I  will  be 
able  to  tell  you  something  definite." 

She  said  she  would  come. 

Mr.  Tolman  was  out  a  long  time  at  lunch-time  the 
next  day.  He  went  to  all  the  leading  book-stores  to 
see  if  he  could  buy  a  copy  of  Dormstock's  great  work. 
But  he  was  unsuccessful.  The  booksellers  told  him 
that  there  was  no  probability  that  he  could  get  a  copy 
in  the  country,  unless,  indeed,  he  found  it  in  the  stock 
of  some  second-hand  dealer.  There  was  no  demand 


156  MR.    TOLMAN. 

at  all  for  it,  and  that  if  he  even  sent  for  it  to  England, 
where  it  was  published,  it  was  not  likely  he  could  get 
it,  for  it  had  been  long  out  of  print.  The  next  day  he 
went  to  several  second-hand  stores,  but  no  "  Dorm- 
stock  "  could  he  find. 

When  he  came  back  he  spoke  to  Glascow  on  the 
subject.  He  was  sorry  to  do  so,  but  thought  that 
simple  justice  compelled  him  to  mention  the  matter. 
The  night  druggist  was  thrown  into  a  perturbed  state 
of  mind  by  the  information  that  some  one  wanted  his 
beloved  book. 

"  A  woman  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why,  she  would 
not  understand  two  pages  out  of  the  whole  of  it.  It  is 
too  bad.  I  didn't  suppose  any  one  would  want  this 
book." 

"  Do  not  disturb  yourself  too  much,"  said  Mr.  Tol- 
man.  "  I  am  not  sure  that  you  ought  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Glascow. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  only  a  passing  fancy  with  her. 
I  dare  say  she  would  really  rather  have  a  good  new 
novel;"  and  then,  having  heard  that  the  lady  was 
expected  that  afternoon,  he  went  out  to  walk,  with  the 
4;  Dormstock  "  under  his  arm. 

When  the  young  lady  arrived,  an  hour  or  so  later, 
she  was  not  at  all  satisfied  to  take  out  a  new  novel, 
and  was  very  sorr}7  indeed  not  to  find  the  ' '  Logarithms 
of  the  Diapason  "  waiting  for  her.  Mr.  Tolman  told 
her  that  he  had  tried  to  buy  another  copy  of  the  work, 
and  for  this  she  expressed  herself  gratefully.  He  also 
found  himself  compelled  to  say  that  the  book  was  in 
the  possession  of  a  gentleman  who  had  had  it  for  some 


ME.    TOLMAN.  157 

time  —  all  the  time  it  had  been  out,  in  fact  —  and  had 
not  yet  finished  it. 

At  this  the  young  lady  seemed  somewhat  nettled. 

"Is  it  not  against  the  rules  for  any  person  to  keep 
one  book  out  so  long?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Tolman.  "  I  have  looked  into  that. 
Our  rules  are  very  simple,  and  merely  say  that  a  book 
may  be  renewed  by  the  payment  of  a  certain  sum." 

"  Then  I  am  never  to  have  it?  "  remarked  the  young 
lady. 

"•Oh,  I  wouldn't  despair  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Tol- 
man. "  He  has  not  had  time  to  reflect  upon  the  mat- 
ter. He  is  a  reasonable  young  man,  and  I  believe  that 
he  will  be  willing  to  give  up  his  study  of  the  book  for 
a  time  and  let  you  take  it." 

"  No,"  said  she,  "I  don't  wish  that.  If  he  is 
studying,  as  you  say  he  is,  day  and  night,  I  do  not 
wish  to  interrupt  him.  I  should  want  the  book  at 
least  a  month,  and  that,  I  suppose,  would  upset  his 
course  of  study  entirely.  But  I  do  not  think  any  one 
should  begin  in  a  circulating  library  to  study  a  book 
that  will  take  him  a  year  to  finish  ;  for,  from  what  you 
say,  it  will  take  this  gentleman  at  least  that  time  to 
finish  Dormstock's  book."  And  so  she  went  her  way. 

When  P.  Glascow  heard  all  this  in  the  evening,  he 
was  very  grave.  He  had  evidently  been  reflecting. 

"It  is  not  fair,"  said  he.  "I  ought  not  to  keep  the 
book  so  long.  I  now  give  it  up  for  a  while.  You  may 
let  her  have  it  when  she  comes."  And  he  put  the 
"  Dormstock  "  on  the  counter,  and  went  and  sat  down 
by  the  stove. 


/58  ME.    TOLMAN. 

Mr.  Tolman  was  grieved.  He  knew  the  night  drug- 
gist had  done  right,  but  still  he  was  sorry  for  him. 
"What  will  you  do?"  he  asked.  "Will  you  stop 
your  studies?" 

44  Oh,  no,"  said  Glascow,  gazing  solemnly  into  the 
stove.  "  I  will  take  up  some  other  books  on  the  dia- 
pason which  I  have,  and  will  so  keep  my  ideas  fresh 
on  the  subject  until  this  lady  is  done  with  the  book. 
I  do  not  really  believe  she  will  study  it  very  long." 
And  then  he  added:  "If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you,  I 
will  come  around  here  and  read,  as  I  have  been  doing, 
until  you  shall  get  a  regular  assistant." 

Mr.  Tolman  would  be  delighted  to  have  him  come, 
he  said.  He  had  entirely  given  up  the  idea  of  getting 
an  assistant ;  but  this  he  did  not  say. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  lady  came  back,  and 
Mr.  Tolman  was  afraid  she  was  not  coming  at  all. 
But  she  did  come,  and  asked  for  Mrs.  Burney's  "Eve- 
lina." She  smiled  when  she  named  the  book,  and  said 
that  she  believed  she  would  have  to  take  a  novel  after 
all,  and  she  had  always  wanted  to  read  that  one. 

"  I  wouldn't  take  a  novel  if  I  were  you,"  said  Mr. 
Tolman  ;  and  he  triumphantly  took  down  the  "  Dorm- 
stock  "  and  laid  it  before  her. 

She  was  evidently  much  pleased,  but  when  he  told 
her  of  Mr.  Glascow' s  gentlemanly  conduct  in  the  mat- 
ter, her  countenance  instantly  changed. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  she,  laying  down  the  book;  "  J 
will  not  break  up  his  study.  I  will  take  the  '  Evelina/ 
if  you  please." 

And  as  no  persuasion  from  Mr.  Tolman  had  anj 


ME.    TO L M 'AN.  159 

effect  upon  her,  she  went  away  with  Mrs.  Barney's 
novel  in  her  muff. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tolman  to  Glascow,  in  the 
evening,  "you  may  as  well  take  the  book  along  with 
you.  She  won't  have  it." 

But  Glascow  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  "  No," 
he  remarked,  as  he  sat  looking  into  the  stove  ;  "  when 
I  said  I  would  let  her  have  it,  I  meant  it.  She'll  take 
it  when  she  sees  that  it  continues  to  remain  in  the 
library." 

Glascow  was  mistaken :  she  did  not  take  it,  having 
the  idea  that  he  would  soon  conclude  that  it  would  be 
wiser  for  him  to  read  it  than  to  let  it  stand  idly  on  the 
shelf. 

"  It  would  serve  them  both  right,"  said  Mr.  Tolman 
to  himself,  "if  somebody  else  would  come  and  take 
it."  But  there  was  no  one  else  among  his  subscribers 
who  would  even  think  of  such  a  thing. 

One  day,  however,  the  young  lady  came  in  and 
asked  to  look  at  the  book.  "  Don't  think  that  I  am 
going  to  take  it  out,"  she  said,  noticing  Mr.  Tolman's 
look  of  pleasure  as  he  handed  her  the  volume.  "  I 
only  wish  to  see  what  he  says  on  a  certain  subject 
which  I  am  studying  now ;  "  and  so  she  sat  down  by 
the  stove,  on  the  chair  which  Mr.  Tolman  placed  for 
her,  and  opened  "  Dormstock." 

She  sat  earnestly  poring  over  the  book  for  half  an 
hour  or  more,  and  then  she  looked  up  and  said,  "I 
really  cannot  make  out  what  this  part  means.  Excuse 
my  troubling  you,  but  I  would  be  very  glad  if  you 
would  explain  the  latter  part  of  this  passage." 


160  ME.    TOLMAN. 

"Me!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tolman;  "why,  ray  good 
madam  —  miss,  I  mean  —  I  couldn't  explain  it  to  you 
if  it  were  to  save  my  life.  But  what  page  is  it?"  said 
he,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  Page  twent3'-four,"  answered  the  young  lady. 

"Oh,  well,  then,"  said  he,  "  if  you  can  wait  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes,  the  gentleman  who  has  had  the  book 
will  be  here,  and  I  think  he  can  explain  any  thing  in 
the  first  part  of  the  work." 

The  young  lady  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  to  wait 
or  not ;  but  as  she  had  a  certain  curiosity  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  person  he  was  who  had  been  so  absorbed  in 
the  book,  she  concluded  to  sit  a  little  longer  and  look 
into  some  other  parts  of  the  book. 

The  night  druggist  soon  came  in ;  and  when  Mr. 
Tolman  introduced  him  to  the  lady,  he  readily  agreed 
to  explain  the  passage  to  her  if  he  could.  So  Mr.  Tol- 
rnan  got  him  a  chair  from  the  inner  room,  and  he  also 
sat  down  by  the  stove. 

The  explanation  was  difficult,  but  it  was  achieved  at 
last;  and  then  the  young  lady  broached  the  subject 
of  leaving  the  book  unused.  This  was  discussed  for 
some  time,  but  came  to  nothing,  although  Mr.  Tolman 
put  down  his  afternoon  paper  and  joined  in  the  argu- 
ment, urging,  among  other  points,  that  as  the  matter 
now  stood  he  was  deprived  by  the  dead-lock  of  all 
income  from  the  book.  But  even  this  strong  argu- 
ment proved  of  no  avail. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish  you  would  do,"  said 
Mr.  Tolman,  as  the  young  lady  rose  to  go:  "come 
here  and  look  at  the  book  whenever  you  wish  to  do  so- 


MB.    TOLMAN.  161 

I'd  like  to  make  this  more  of  a  reading-room  anyway. 
It  would  give  me  more  company." 

After  this  the  young  lady  looked  into  4 '  Dormstock  ' ' 
when  she  came  in  ;  and  as  her  holidays  had  been  ex- 
tended by  the  continued  absence  of  the  family  in  which 
she  taught,  she  had  plenty  of  time  for  study,  and  came 
quite  frequently.  She  often  met  with  Glascow  in  the 
shop  ;  and  on  such  occasions  they  generally  consulted 
u  Dormstock,"  and  sometimes  had  quite  lengthy  talks 
on  musical  matters.  One  afternoon  they  came  in 
together,  having  met  on  their  way  to  the  library,  and 
entered  into  a  conversation  on  diapasonic  logarithms, 
which  continued  during  the  lady's  stay  in  the  shop. 

"  The  proper  thing,"  thought  Mr.  Tolman,  "would 
be  for  these  two  people  to  get  married.  Then  they 
could  take  the  book  and  study  it  to  their  hearts'  con- 
tent. And  they  would  certainly  suit  each  other,  for 
they  are  both  greatly  attached  to  musical  mathematics 
and  philosophy,  and  neither  of  them  either  plays  or 
sings,  as  they  have  told  me.  It  would  be  an  admirable 
match." 

Mr.  Tolman  thought  over  this  matter  a  good  deal, 
and  at  last  determined  to  mention  it  to  Glascow.  "When 
he  did  so,  the  young  man  colored,  and  expressed  the 
opinion  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  think  of  such  a 
thing.  But  it  was  evident  from  his  manner  and  subse- 
quent discourse  that  he  had  thought  of  it. 

Mr.  Tolman  gradually  became  quite  anxious  on  the 
subject,  especially  as  the  night  druggist  did  not  seem 
inclined  to  take  any  steps  in  the  matter.  The  weather 
was  now  beginning  to  be  warmer,  and  Mr.  Tolman 


162  ME.    TOLMAN. 

reflected  that  the  little  house  and  the  little  shop  were 
probably  much  more  cosey  and  comfortable  in  winter 
than  in  summer.  There  were  higher  buildings  all  about 
the  house,  and  even  now  he  began  to  feel  that  the  cir- 
culation of  air  would  be  quite  as  agreeable  as  the  circu- 
lation of  books.  He  thought  a  good  deal  about  his 
airy  rooms  in  the  neighboring  city. 

"Mr.  Glascow,"  said  he,  one  afternoon,  "I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  shortly  sell  out  this  business." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Do  you  mean 
you  will  give  it  up  and  go  away — leave  the  place  alto- 
gether?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Tolman,  "I  shall  give  up  the 
place  entirely,  and  leave  the  city." 

The  night  druggist  was  shocked.  He  had  spent 
many  happy  hours  in  that  shop,  and  his  hours  there 
were  now  becoming  pleasanter  than  ever.  If  Mr.  Tol- 
man went  away,  all  this  must  end.  Nothing  of  the 
kind  could  be  expected  of  any  new  proprietor. 

"And  considering  this,"  continued  Mr.  Tolman,  "I 
think  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  bring  your  love  mat- 
ters to  a  conclusion  while  I  am  here  to  help  you." 

"My  love  matters!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Glascow,  with 
a  flush. 

Ck  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Tolman.  "  I  have  eyes, 
and  I  know  all  about  it.  Now  let  me  tell  you  what  I 
think.  When  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  it  ought  to  be  done 
the  first  time  there  is  a  good  chance.  That's  the  way 
I  do  business.  Now  you  might  as  well  come  around 
here  to-morrow  afternoon,  prepared  to  propose  to  Miss 
Edwards.  She  is  due  to-morrow,  for  she  has  been  two 


MR.    TOLMAN.  163 

days  away.  If  she  don't  come,  we'll  postpone  the 
matter  until  the  next  day.  But  you  should  be  ready 
to-morrow.  I  don't  believe  you  can  see  her  much  when 
you  don't  meet  her  here ;  for  that  family  is  expected 
back  very  soon,  and  from  what  I  infer  from  her  ac- 
count of  her  employers,  you  won't  care  to  visit  her  at 
bheir  house." 

The  night  druggist  wanted  to  think  about  it. 

"There  is  nothing  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Tolman. 
4 'We  know  all  about  the  lady."  (He  spoke  truly, 
for  he  had  informed  himself  about  both  parties  to  the 
affair.)  "Take  my  advice,  and  be  here  to-morrow 
afternoon  —  and  come  rather  early." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Tolman  went  up  to  his  parlor 
on  the  second  floor,  and  brought  down  two  blue  stuffed 
chairs,  the  best  he  had,  and  put  them  in  the  little  room 
back  of  the  shop.  He  also  brought  down  one  or  two 
knicknacks  and  put  them  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  he 
dusted  and  brightened  up  the  room  as  well  as  he  could. 
He  even  covered  the  table  with  a  red  cloth  from  the 
parlor. 

When  the  young  lady  arrived,  he  invited  her  to  walk 
into  the  back  room  to  look  over  some  new  books  he 
had  just  got  in.  If  she  had  known  he  proposed  to 
give  up  the  business,  she  would  have  thought  it  rather 
strange  that  he  should  be  buying  new  books.  But  she 
knew  nothing  of  his  intentions.  When  she  was  seated 
at  the  table  whereon  the  new  books  were  spread,  Mr. 
Tolman  stepped  outside  of  the  shop  door  to  watch  for 
Glascow's  approach.  He  soon  appeared. 

"  Walk  right  in,"  said  Mr.  Tolman.     "  She's  in  the 


164  JtfR.    TOLMAN. 

back  room  looking  over  books.  I'll  wait  here,  and 
keep  out  customers  as  far  as  possible.  It's  pleasant, 
and  I  want  a  little  fresh  air.  I'll  give  you  twenty 
minutes." 

Glascow  was  pale,  but  he  went  in  without  a  word  ; 
and  Mr.  Tolman,  with  his  hands  under  his  coat-tail, 
and  his  feet  rather  far  apart,  established  a  blockade  01: 
the  door-step.  He  stood  there  for  some  time  looking 
at  the  people  outside,  and  wondering  what  the  people 
inside  were  doing.  The  little  girl  who  had  borrowed 
the  milk  of  him,  and  who  had  never  returned  it,  was 
about  to  pass  the  door ;  but  seeing  him  standing  there, 
she  crossed  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  street.  But 
he  did  not  notice  her.  He  was  wondering  if  it  was 
time  to  go  in.  A  boy  came  up  to  the  door,  and  wanted 
to  know  if  he  kept  Easter-eggs.  Mr.  Tolman  was 
happy  to  say  he  did  not.  When  he  had  allowed  the 
night  druggist  a  very  liberal  twenty  minutes,  he  went 
in.  As  he  entered  the  shop  door,  giving  the  bell  a 
very  decided  ring  as  he  did  so,  P.  Glascow  came  down 
the  two  steps  that  led  from  the  inner  room.  His  face 
showed  that  it  was  all  right  with  him. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mr.  Tolman  sold  out  his  stock, 
good-will,  and  fixtures,  together  with  the  furniture  and 
lease  of  the  house.  And  who  should  he  sell  out  to 
but  to  Mr.  Glascow  !  This  piece  of  business  was  one 
of  the  happiest  points  in  the  whole  affair.  There  was 
no  reason  why  the  happy  couple  should  not  be  married 
very  soon,  and  the  young  lady  was  charmed  to  give  up 
her  position  as  teacher  and  governess  in  a  family,  and 
come  and  take  charge  of  that  delightful  little  store  and 


ME.    TOLMAN.  165 

that  cunning  little  house,  with  almost  every  thing  in  it 
that  they  wanted. 

One  thing  in  the  establishment  Mr.  Tolman  refused 
to  sell.  That  was  Dormstock's  great  work.  He  made 
the  couple  a  present  of  the  volume,  and  between  two 
of  the  earlier  pages  he  placed  a  bank-note,  which  in 
value  was  very  much  more  than  that  of  the  ordinary 
wedding-gift. 

4 'And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  they  asked  of 
him,  when  all  these  things  were  settled.  And  then  he 
told  them  how  he  was  going  back  to  his  business  in 
the  neighboring  city,  and  he  told  them  what  it  was, 
and  how  he  had  come  to  manage  a  circulating  library. 
They  did  not  think  him  crazy.  People  who  studied 
the  logarithms  of  the  diapason  would  not  be  apt  to 
think  a  man  crazy  for  such  a  little  thing  as  that. 

When  Mr.  Tolman  returned  to  the  establishment  of 
Pusey  &  Co.,  he  found  every  thing  going  on  very  satis- 
factorily. 

44  You  look  ten  years  younger,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Can- 
terfield.  "You  must  have  had  a  very  pleasant  time. 

I  did  not  think  there  was  enough  to  interest  you  in 

for  so  long  a  time." 

4 'Interest  me!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tolman.  "Why, 
objects  of  interest  crowded  on  me.  I  never  had  a 
more  enjoyable  holiday  in  my  life." 

When  he  went  home  that  evening  (and  he  found 
himself  quite  willing  to  go) ,  he  tore  up  the  will  he  had 
made.  He  now  felt  that  there  was  no  necessity  for 
proving  his  sanity. 


ON  THE  TRAINING  OF  PARENTS. 


"TpORTY  or  fifty  years  ago,  wtien  the  middle-aged 
and  old  people  of  the  present  day  were  children 
or  young  people,  the  parent  occupied  a  position  in  the 
family  so  entirely  different  from  that  in  which  we  find 
him  to-day,  that  the  subject  of  his  training  was  not 
perhaps  of  sufficient  importance  to  receive  attention 
from  those  engaged  in  the  promotion  of  education. 
The  training  of  the  child  by  the  parent,  both  as  a 
necessary  element  in  the  formation  of  its  character  and 
as  a  preparation  for  its  education  in  the  schools,  was 
then  considered  the  only  branch  of  family  instruction 
and  discipline  to  which  the  thought  and  the  assistance 
of  workers  in  social  reform  should  be  given. 

But  now  that  there  has  been  such  a  change,  espe- 
cially in  the  United  States,  in  the  constitution  of  the 
family,  when  the  child  has  taken  into  its  own  hands 
that  authority  which  was  once  the  prerogative  of  the 
parent,  it  is  time  that  we  should  recognize  the  altered 
condition  of  things,  and  give  to  the  children  of  the 
present  day  that  assistance  and  counsel  in  the  govern- 
ment and  judicious  training  of  their  parents  which  was 
186 


O^Y   THE   TRAINING    OF  PARENTS.         167 

once  so  freely  offered  to  the  latter  when  their  offspring 
held  a  subordinate  position  in  the  family  and  house- 
hold. 

Since  this  radical  change  in  the  organization  of  the 
family  a  great  responsibility  has  fallen  upon  the  child ; 
it  finds  itself  in  a  position  far  more  difficult  than  that 
previously  held  by  the  parent.  It  has  upon  its  hands 
not  a  young  and  tender  being,  with  mind  unformed 
and  disposition  capable,  in  ordinaiy  cases,  of  being 
easily  moulded  and  directed,  but  two  persons  with  minds 
and  dispositions  matured,  and  often  set  and  hardened, 
whose  currents  of  thought  run  in  such  well-worn  chan- 
nels, and  whose  judgments  are  so  biased  and  preju- 
diced in  favor  of  this  or  that  line  of  conduct,  that  the 
labor  and  annoyance  of  their  proper  training  is  fre- 
quently evaded,  and  the  parents  are  remanded  to  the 
position  of  providers  of  necessities,  without  any  effort 
on  the  part  of  the  child  to  assist  them  to  adapt  them- 
selves to  their  new  condition. 

Not  only  has  the  child  of  the  present  day  the  obvious 
difficulties  of  its  position  to  contend  with,  but  it  has 
no  traditions  to  fall  back  upon  for  counsel  and  support. 
The  condition  of  family  affairs  under  consideration  did 
not  exist  to  any  considerable  extent  before  the  middle 
of  the  present  century,  and  there  are  no  available 
records  of  the  government  of  the  parent  by  the  child. 
Neither  can  it  look  to  other  parts  of  the  world  for 
examples  of  successful  filial  administration.  Nowhere 
but  in  our  own  country  can  this  state  of  things  be  said 
to  prevail.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  that  those  who 
are  able  to  do  so  should  step  forward  in  aid  of  the 


168         ON   THE   TRAINING    OF  PARENTS. 

child  as  they  formerly  aided  the  parent,  and  see  to  it, 
as  far  as  possible,  that  the  latter  receives  the  training 
which  will  enable  him  properly  to  perform  the  duties 
of  the  novel  position  which  he  has  been  called  upon  to 
fill.  It  is  an  injustice  to  millions  of  our  citizens  that 
the  literature  of  the  country  contains  nothing  on  this 
subject. 

Whether  it  be  done  properly  or  improperly,  the 
training  of  which  we  speak  generally  begins  about 
the  fifth  or  sixth  year  of  parentage,  although  in  cases 
where  there  happens  to  be  but  one  trainer  it  often 
begins  much  earlier ;  but  in  these  first  years  of  filial 
rule  the  discipline  is  necessarily  irregular  and  spas- 
modic, and  it  is  not  until  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth 
year  of  his  parental  life  that  a  man  is  generally  enabled 
to  understand  what  is  expected  of  him  by  his  offspring, 
and  what  line  of  conduct  he  must  pursue  in  order  to 
meet  their  views.  It  is,  therefore,  to  the  young  people 
who  have  lived  beyond  their  first  decade  that  the  great 
work  of  parent-training  really  belongs,  and  it  is  to 
them  that  we  should  offer  our  suggestions  and  advice. 

It  should  be  considered  that  this  revolution  in  the 
government  of  the  family  was  not  one  of  force.  The 
father  and  the  mother  were  not  hurled  from  their  posi- 
tion and  authority  by  the  superior  power  of  the  child, 
but  these  positions  have  been  willingly  abdicated  by 
the  former,  and  promptly  and  unhesitatingly  accepted 
by  the  latter.  To  the  child  then  belongs  none  of  the 
rights  of  the  conqueror.  Its  subjects  have  voluntarily 
placed  themselves  under  its  rule,  and  by  this  act  they 
have  acquired  a  right  to  consideration  and  kindly  sym- 


ON   THE   TRAINING    OF  PARENTS.         169 

pathy  which  should  never  be  forgotten  by  their  youth- 
ful preceptors  and  directors.  In  his  present  position 
the  parent  has  not  onh'  much  to  learn,  but  much  to 
unlearn  ;  and  while  the  child  is  endeavoring  to  indicate 
to  him  the  path  in  which  he  should  walk,  it  should 
remember  that  the  feet  of  father  or  mother  are  often 
entirely  unaccustomed  to  the  peculiar  pedestrianism 
now  imposed  upon  them,  and  that  allowance  should  be 
made  for  the  frequent  slips,  and  trips,  and  even  falls, 
which  may  happen  to  them.  There  is  but  little  doubt 
that  severity  is  too  frequently  used  in  the  education  of 
parents.  More  is  expected  of  them  than  should  be 
expected  of  any  class  of  people  whose  duties  and  obli- 
gations have  never  been  systematically  defined  and 
codified.  The  parent  who  may  be  most  anxious  to 
fulfil  the  wishes  of  his  offspring,  and  conduct  himself 
in  such  manner  as  will  meet  the  entire  approval  of  the 
child,  must  often  grope  in  the  dark.  It  is  therefore 
not  only  necessary  to  the  peace  and  tranquillity  of  the 
family  that  his  duties  should  be  defined  as  clearly  as 
possible,  but  this  assistance  is  due  to  him  as  a  mark 
of  that  filial  affection  which  should  not  be  permitted 
entirely  to  die  out,  simply  because  the  parent  has  vol- 
untarily assumed  a  position  of  inferiority  and  subjec- 
tion. It  is  obvious,  then,  that  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
child  to  find  out  what  it  really  wants,  and  then  to  make 
these  wants  clear  and  distinct  to  the  parents.  How 
many  instances  there  are  of  fathers  and  mothers  who 
spend  hours,  days,  and  even  longer  periods,  in  endeav- 
oring to  discover  what  it  is  that  will  satisfy  the  crav- 
ings of  their  child,  and  give  them  that  position  in  its 


170         ON    TUE   TRAINING   OF  PARENTS. 

esteem  which  they  are  so  desirous  to  hold.  This  is 
asking  too  much  of  the  parent,  and  there  are  few  whose 
mental  vigor  will  long  hold  out  when  they  are  subjected, 
not  only  to  the  performance  of  onerous  duties,  but  to 
the  anxiety  and  vexation  consequent  upon  the  difficult 
task  of  discovering  what  those  duties  are. 

Among  the  most  forcible  reasons  why  the  rule  of 
the  child  over  the  parent  should  be  tempered  by  kind 
consideration,  is  the  high  degree  of  respect  and  defer- 
ence now  paid  to  the  wants  and  opinions  of  children. 
In  this  regard  they  have  absolutely  nothing  to  complain 
of.  The  parent  lives  for  the  benefit  of  the  child.  In 
many  cases  the  prosperity  and  happiness  of  the  latter 
appears  to  be  the  sole  reason  for  the  existence  of  the 
former.  How  necessary  is  it,  then,  that  persons  occu- 
pying the  position  of  parents  in  the  prevalent  organ- 
ization of  the  family  should  not  be  left  to  exhaust 
themselves  in  undirected  efforts,  but  that  the  develop- 
ment of  their  ability  and  power  to  properly  perform 
the  duties  of  the  father  and  mother  of  the  new  era 
should  be  made  the  subject  of  the  earnest  thought  and 
attention  of  the  child. 

It  is  difficult  for  those  whose  youth  elapsed  before 
the  revolution  in  the  family,  and  who,  therefore,  never 
enjoyed  opportunities  of  exercising  the  faculties  neces- 
sary in  the  government  of  parents,  to  give  suitable 
advice  and  suggestion  to  those  now  engaged  in  this 
great  work ;  but  the  following  remarks  are  offered  in 
the  belief  that  they  will  receive  due  consideration  from 
those  to  whom  they  are  addressed. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  of  prime  importance 


ON   THE  TRAINING   OF  PARENTS.         171 

in  the  training  of  a  parent  by  the  child  that  the  matter 
should  be  taken  in  hand  as  early  as  possible.  He  or 
she  who  begins  to  feel,  in  the  first  years  of  parental 
life,  the  restrictions  of  filial  control,  will  be  much  less 
difficult  to  manage  as  time  goes  on,  than  one  who  has 
not  been  made  aware,  until  he  has  been  a  parent  for 
perhaps  ten  or  twelve  years,  that  he  is  expected  to 
shape  his  conduct  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  of  his 
offspring.  In  such  cases,  habits  Of  self-consideration, 
and  even  those  of  obtrusive  self-assertion,  are  easily 
acquired  by  the  parent,  and  are  very  difficult  to  break 
up.  The  child  then  encounters  obstacles  and  discour- 
agements which  would  not  have  existed  had  the  disci- 
pline been  begun  when  the  mind  of  a  parent  was  in 
a  pliant  and  mouldable  condition.  Instances  have  oc- 
curred, when,  on  account  of  the  intractable  nature  of 
father  or  mother,  the  education  intended  by  the  child 
has  been  entirely  abandoned,  and  the  parents  allowed 
to  take  matters  into  their  own  hands,  and  govern  the 
family  as  it  used  to  be  done  before  the  new  system 
came  ;uto  vogue ,  But  it  will  nearly  always  be  found 
to  be  the  ease,  in  such  instances,  that  the  ideas  of  the 
parent  concerning  his  rights  and  prerogatives  in  the 
family  have  been  allowed  to  grow  and  take  root  to  an 
extent  entirely  incompatible  with  easy  removal. 

The  neglect  of  early  opportunities  of  assuming  con- 
trol by  the  child  who  first  enables  a  married  couple  to 
call  themselves  parents,  is  not  only  often  detrimental 
to  its  own  chances  of  holding  the  domestic  reins,  but 
it  also  trammels,  to  a  great  extent,  the  action  of  suc- 
ceeding children.  But  no  youngster,  no  matter  how 


172         ON   TUE   TRAINING    OF  PARENTS. 

many  brothers  and  sisters  may  have  preceded  it,  or 
to  what  extent  these  may  have  allowed  the  parents  to 
have  their  own  way,  need  ever  despair  of  assuming 
the  control  which  the  others  have  allowed  to  elude  their 
grasp.  It  is  not  at  all  uncommon  for  the  youngest 
child  of  a  large  family  to  be  able  to  step  to  the  front, 
and  show  to  the  others  how  a  parent  may  be  guided 
and  regulated  by  the  exercise  of  firm  will  and  deter- 
mined action. 

If,  as  has  been  asserted,  parental  training  is  begun 
early  enough,  the  child  will  find  its  task  an  easy  one, 
and  little  advice  will  be  needed  by  it,  but  in  the  case 
of  delayed  action  there  is  one  point  which  should  be 
kept  in  mind,  and  that  is  that  sudden  and  violent 
measures  should,  as  far  as  possible,  be  avoided.  In 
times  gone  by  it  used  to  be  the  custom  of  many  parents, 
when  offended  by  a  child,  to  administer  a  box  to  the 
culprit's  ear.  An  unexpected  incident  of  this  kind 
was  apt  to  cause  a  sudden  and  tremendous  change  in 
the  mental  action  of  the  young  person  boxed.  His 
views  of  life  ;  his  recollections  of  the  past ;  his  aspira- 
tions for  the  future  ;  his  ideas  of  nature,  of  art,  of  the 
pursuit  of  happiness  —  were  all  merged  and  blended 
into  one  overwhelming  sensation.  For  the  moment  he 
knew  nothing  on  earth  but  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
boxed.  From  this  point  the  comprehension  of  his 
own  status  among  created  things  ;  his  understanding 
of  surrounding  circumstances,  and  of  cosmic  entities 
in  general,  had  to  begin  anew.  Whether  he  continued 
to  be  the  same  boy  as  before,  or  diverging  one  way  or 
the  other,  became  a  better  or  a  worse  one,  was  a  resuJ* 


ON  THE   TRAINING   OF  PARENTS.        ITS 

not  to  be  predetermined  by  any  known  process.  No-w- 
it is  not  to  be  supposed  that  any  ordinary  child  will 
undertake  to  box  the  ears  of  an  ordinary  parent,  for 
the  result  in  such  a  case  might  interfere  with  the  whole 
course  of  training  then  in  progress,  but  there  is  a  men- 
tal box,  quite  as  sudden  in  its  action,  and  as  astound- 
ing in  its  effect  upon  the  boxee,  as  an  actual  physical 
blow,  and  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  child  to 
administer  such  a  form  of  correction.  But  the  prac- 
tice is  now  as  dangerous  as  it  used  to  be,  and  as  un- 
certain of  good  result,  and  it  is  earnestly  urged  upon 
the  youth  of  the  age  to  abolish  it  altogether.  If  a 
parent  cannot  be  turned  from  the  error  of  his  ways  by 
any  other  means  than  by  a  shock  of  this  kind,  it  would 
be  better,  if  the  thing  be  possible,  to  give  him  into  the 
charge  of  some  children  other  than  his  own,  and  let 
them  see  what  they  can  do  with  him. 

We  do  not  propose  to  liken  a  human  parent  to  an 
animal  so  unintelligent  as  a  horse  ;  but  there  are  times 
when  a  child  would  find  it  to  his  advantage,  and  to  that 
of  his  progenitor,  to  treat  the  latter  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  a  sensible  and  considerate  man  treats  a  nervous 
horse.  An  animal  of  this  kind,  when  he  sees  by  the 
roadside  an  obtrusive  object  with  which  he  is  not  ac- 
quainted, is  apt  to  imagine  it  a  direful  and  ferocious 
creature,  such  as  used  to  pounce  upon  his  prehistoric 
ancestors ;  and  to  refuse  to  approach  its  dangerous 
vicinity.  Thereupon  the  man  in  charge  of  the  horse, 
if  he  be  a  person  of  the  character  mentioned  above, 
does  not  whip  or  spur  the  frightened  animal  until  he 
rushes  madly  past  the  terrifying  illusion,  but  quieting 


174         ON   THE   TRAINING   OF  PARENTS. 

him  by  gentle  word  and  action,  leads  him  up  to  the  ob- 
ject, and  shows  him  that  it  is  not  a  savage  beast,  eager 
for  horseflesh,  but  an  empty  barrel,  and  that  the  fierce 
eye  that  he  believed  to  be  glaring  upon  him  is  nothing 
but  the  handle  of  a  shovel  protruding  above  the  top, 
Then  the  horse,  if  there  is  any  good  in  him,  will  be 
content  to  walk  by  that  barrel ;  and  the  next  time  he 
sees  it  will  be  likely  to  pass  it  with  perhaps  but  a  hasty 
glance  or  two  to  see  that  its  nature  has  not  changed ; 
and,  in  time,  he  will  learn  that  barrels,  and  other  things 
that  he  may  not  have  noticed  before,  are  not  ravenous, 
and  so  become  a  better,  because  a  wiser,  horse.  We 
know  well  that  there  are  parents  who,  plodding  along 
as  quietly  as  any  son  or  daughter  could  desire,  will  sud- 
denly stop  short  at  the  sight  of  something  thoroughly 
understood,  and  not  at  all  disapproved  of  by  his  off- 
spring, but  which  to  him  appears  as  objectionable  and 
dangerous  as  the  empty  barrel  to  the  high-strung  horse. 
Now  let  not  the  youngster  apply  the  mental  lash,  and 
urge  that  startled  and  reluctant  parent  forward.  Bet- 
ter far  if  it  take  him  figuratively  by  the  bridle,  and 
make  him  understand  that  that  which  appeared  to  him 
a  vision  of  mental  or  physical  ruin  to  a  young  person, 
or  a  frightful  obstacle  in  the  way  of  rational  progress, 
is  nothing  but  a  pleasant  form  of  intellectual  recrea- 
tion, which  all  persons  ought  to  like  very  much,  or  to 
which,  at  least,  they  should  have  no  objections.  How 
many  such  phantasms  will  arise  before  a  parent,  and 
how  necessary  is  it  for  a  child,  if  it  wish  to  carry  on 
without  disturbance  its  work  of  training,  to  get  that 
parent  into  the  habit  of  thinking  that  these  things  are 
really  nothing  but  phantasms  ! 


ON   TEE  TRAINING   OF  PARENTS.        175 

When  it  becomes  necessary  to  punish  a  parent,  no 
child  should  forget  the  importance  of  tempering  sever- 
ity with  mercy.  The  methods  in  use  in  the  by-gone 
times  when  the  present  condition  of  things  was  re- 
versed, were  generally  of  a  physical  nature,  such  as 
castigation,  partial  starvation,  and  restrictions  in  the 
pursuit  of  happiness,  but  those  now  inflicted  by  the 
children,  acting  upon  the  mental  nature  of  the  parents, 
are  so  severe  and  hard  to  bear  that  they  should  be  used 
but  sparingly.  Not  only  is  there  danger  that  by  undue 
severity  an  immediate  progenitor  may  be  permanently 
injured,  and  rendered  of  little  value  to  himself  and 
others,  but  there  is  sometimes  a  re-action,  violent  and 
sudden,  and  a  family  is  forced  to  gaze  upon  the  fear- 
ful spectacle  of  a  parent  at  bay  ! 

The  tendency  of  a  great  portion  of  the  youth,  who 
have  taken  the  governing  power  into  their  own  hands, 
is  to  make  but  little  use  of  it,  and  to  allow  their  parents 
to  go  their  own  way,  while  they  go  upon  theirs.  Such 
neglect,  however,  cannot  but  be  prejudicial  to  the 
permanency  and  force  of  the  child-power.  While  the 
young  person  is  pursuing  a  course  entirely  satisfactory 
to  himself,  doing  what  he  likes,  and  leaving  undone 
what  he  does  not  like,  the  unnoticed  parent  may  be 
concocting  schemes  of  domestic  management  entirely 
incompatible  with  the  desires  and  plans  of  his  offspring^ 
and  quietly  building  up  obstacles  which  will  be  very 
difficult  to  overthrow  when  the  latter  shall  have  ob- 
served their  existence.  Eternal  vigilance  is  not  only 
the  price  of  liberty,  but  it  is  also  the  price  of  suprem- 
acy. To  keep  one's  self  above  another  it  is  necessary 


176         ON   THE   TRAINING    OF  PARENTS. 

to  be  careful  to  keep  that  other  down.  The  practice 
of  some  fathers  and  mothers  of  coming  frequently  to 
the  front,  when  their  presence  there  is  least  expected 
or  desired,  must  have  been  noticed  by  many  children 
who  had  supposed  their  parents  so  thoroughly  trained 
that  they  would  not  think  of  such  a  thing  as  causing 
trouble  and  annoyance  to  those  above  them.  A  parent 
is  human,  and  cannot  be  depended  upon  to  preserve 
always  the  same  line  of  action ;  and  the  children  who 
are  accustomed  to  see  their  fathers  and  mothers  per- 
fectly obedient,  docile,  and  inoffensive,  must  not  ex- 
pect that  satisfactory  conduct  to  continue  if  they  are 
allowed  to  discover  that  a  guiding  and  controlling  hand 
is  not  always  upon  them.  There  are  parents,  of  course, 
who  never  desire  to  rise,  even  temporarily,  from  the 
inferior  positions  which,  at  the  earliest  possible  period, 
they  have  assumed  in  their  families.  Such  persons  are 
perfectly  safe ;  and  when  a  child  perceives  by  careful 
observation  that  a  parent  belongs  to  this  class,  it  may, 
without  fear,  relax  much  of  the  watchfulness  and  dis- 
cipline necessary  in  most  families,  and  content  itself 
with  merely  indicating  the  path  that  it  is  desirable  the 
elder  person  should  pursue.  Such  parents  are  invalu- 
able boons  to  an  ambitious,  energetic,  and  masterful 
child ;  and  if  there  were  more  of  them  the  anxieties, 
the  perplexities,  and  the  difficulties  of  the  child-power 
among  us  would  be  greatly  ameliorated. 

Even  when  parents  may  be  considered  to  be  con- 
ducting themselves  properly,  and  to  need  no  increase 
of  vigilant  control,  it  is  often  well  for  the  child  to 
enter  into  their  pursuits ;  to  see  what  they  are  doing. 


ON   THE   TRAINING   OF  PARENTS.         177 

and,  if  it  should  seem  best,  to  help  th^m  do  it.  Of 
course,  the  parents  are  expected  to  promote  and  main- 
tain the  material  interests  of  the  family  ;  and  as  their 
labor,  beyond  that  necessary  for  present  necessities,  is 
generally  undertaken  for  the  future  benefit  of  the  child, 
it  is  but  fair  that  the  latter  should  have  something  to 
say  about  this  labor.  In  the  majority  of  cases,  how- 
ever, the  parent  may,  in  this  respect,  safely  be  let 
alone.  The  more  he  gives  himself  up  to  the  amassing 
of  a  competency,  or  a  fortune,  the  less  will  he  be  likely 
to  interfere  with  the  purposes  and  actions  of  his  chil- 
dren. 

One  of  the  most  important  results  in  the  training 
under  consideration  is  its  influence  upon  the  trainer. 
When  a  child  has  reduced  its  parents  to  a  condition  of 
docile  obedience,  and  sees  them  day  by  day,  and  year 
by  year,  pursuing  a  path  of  cheerful  subservience,  it 
can  scarcely  fail  to  appreciate  what  will  be  expected 
of  it  when  it  shall  itself  have  become  a  parent.  Such 
observation,  if  accompanied  by  accordant  reflection, 
cannot  fail  to  make  easier  the  rule  of  the  coming 
child  ;  and,  in  conclusion,  we  would  say  to  the  children 
of  the  present  day :  Train  up  a  parent  in  the  way  he 
should  go,  aid  wbeu  you  are  old  you  will  know  how  to 
go  vVH*  vr,y  yerryslf. 


OUR  FIRE-SCREEN. 


IT  was  a  fire-screen, — that  is,  it  was  a  frame  for 
one,  —  and  it  was  made  of  ash.  My  wife  had 
worked  a  very  pretty  square  of  silk,  with  flowers  and 
other  colored  objects  upon  it ;  and  when  it  was  finished 
she  thought  she  would  use  it  for  a  fire-screen,  and 
asked  me  to  have  a  frame  made  for  it.  I  ordered  the 
frame  of  ash,  because  the  cabinet-maker  said  that  that 
was  the  fashionable  wood  at  present ;  and  when  it  came 
home  my  wife  and  I  both  liked  it  very  much,  although 
we  could  not  help  thinking  that  it  ought  to  be  painted. 
It  was  well  made,  —  you  could  see  the  construction 
everywhere.  One  part  ran  through  another  part,  and 
the  ends  were  fastened  with  pegs.  It  was  modelled,  so 
the  cabinet-maker  informed  me,  in  the  regular  Eastlake 
style. 

It  was  a  pretty  frame,  but  the  wood  was  of  too  light 
a  color.  It  stared  out  at  us  from  the  midst  of  the 
other  furniture.  Of  course  it  might  be  stained,  and  so 
made  to  harmonize  with  the  rest  of  our  sitting-room  .• 
but  what  would  be  the  good  of  having  it  of  ash  if  i 
were  painted  over  ?  It  might  as  well  be  of  pine. 
178 


OUR  FIRE-SCREEN.  179 

However,  at  jay  wife's  suggestion,  I  got  a  couple  of 
Eastlake  chairs,  also  ash ;  and  with  these  at  each  side 
of  the  fire-place,  the  screen  looked  much  better.  The 
chairs  were  very  well  made,  and  would  last  a  long  time, 
especially,  my  wife  said,  as  no  one  would  care  to  sit 
down  in  them.  They  were,  certainly,  rather  stiff  and 
uncomfortable,  but  that  was  owing  to  the  Eastlake 
pattern  ;  and  as  we  did  not  need  to  use  them,  this  was 
of  no  importance  to  us.  Our  house  was  furnished  very 
comfortably.  We  made  a  point  of  having  easy-chairs 
for  our  visitors  as  well  as  ourselves,  and  in  fact,-  every 
thing  about  our  house  was  easy,  warm  and  bright.  We 
believed  that  home  should  be  a  place  of  rest ;  and  we 
bought  chairs  and  sofas  and  lounges  which  took  you  in 
their  arms  like  a  mother,  and  made  you  forget  the  toils 
of  the  world. 

But  we  really  did  not  enjoy  the  screen  as  much  as  we 
expected  we  should,  and  as  much  as  we  had  enjoyed 
almost  every  thing  that  we  had  before  bought  for  our 
house.  Even  with  the  companionship  of  the  chairs,  it 
did  not  seem  to  fit  into  the  room.  And  every  thing  else 
fitted.  I  think  I  may  honestly  say  that  we  were  people 
of  taste,  and  that  there  were  few  incongruities  in  our 
house-furnishing. 

But  the  two  chairs  and  the  screen  did  not  look  like 
any  thing  else  we  had.  They  made  our  cosey  sitting- 
room  uncomfortable.  We  bore  it  as  long  as  we  could, 
and  then  we  determined  to  take  a  bold  step.  We  had 
always  been  consistent  and  thorough  ;  we  would  be  so 
now.  So  we  had  all  the  furniture  of  the  room  removed, 
excepting  the  fire-screen  and  the  two  chairs,  and  re- 


180  OUR  FIRE-SCREEN. 

placed  it  with  articles  of  the  Eastlake  style,  in  ash  and 
oak.  Of  course  our  bright  Wilton  carpet  did  not  suit 
these  things,  and  we  took  it  up,  and  had  the  floor 
puttied  and  stained  and  bought  a  Turko-Persian  carpet 
that  was  only  partly  large  enough  for  the  room.  The 
walls  we  re-papered,  so  as  to  tone  them  down  to  the 
general  stiffness,  arid  we  had  the  ceiling  colored  sage- 
green,  which  would  be  in  admirable  keeping,  the  deco- 
rating man  said. 

We  didn't  like  this  room,  but  we  thought  we  would 
try  and  learn  to  like  it.  The  fault  was  in  ourselves 
perhaps.  High  art  in  furniture  was  something  we 
ought  to  understand  and  ought  to  like.  We  would  do 
both  if  we  could. 

But  we  soon  saw  that  one  reason  why  we  did  not  like 
our  sitting-room  was  the  great  dissimilarity  between  it 
and  the  rest  of  the  house.  To  come  from  our  comfort- 
able bedroom,  or  our  handsome,  bright  and  softly 
furnished  parlor,  or  our  cheerful  dining-room,  into  this 
severe  and  middle-aged  sitting-room  was  too  great  a 
rise  (or  fall)  for  our  perceptions.  The  strain  or  the 
shock  was  injurious  to  us.  So  we  determined  to  strike 
another  blow  in  the  cause  of  consistency.  We  would 
furnish  our  whole  house  in  the  Eastlake  style. 

Fortunately,  my  wife's  brother  had  recently  married, 
and  had  bought  a  house  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
our  place.  He  had,  so  far,  purchased  but  little  fur- 
niture, and  when  we  refurnished  our  sitting-room,  he 
took  the  old  furniture  at  a  moderate  price,  for  which 
I  was  very  glad,  for  I  had  no  place  to  put  it.  I  call 
it  "  old  "  furniture  to  distinguish  it  from  the  new  ;  but 


OUR  FIRE-SCREEN.  181 

in  reality,  it  had  not  been  used  very  long,  and  was  in 
admirable  condition.  After  buying  these  things  from 
us,  Tom  —  my  brother-in-law  —  seemed  to  come  to  a 
stop  in  his  house-furnishing.  He  and  his  wife  lived 
in  one  or  two  rooms  of  their  house,  and  appeared  to 
be  in  no  hurry  to  get  themselves  fixed  and  settled. 
Tom  often  came  over  and  made  remarks  about  our 
sitting-room,  and  the  curious  appearance  it  presented 
in  the  midst  of  a  house  furnished  luxuriously  in  the 
most  modern  style  ;  and  this  helped  us  to  come  to  the 
determination  to  Eastlake  our  house,  thoroughly  and 
completely. 

Of  course,  as  most  of  our  new  furniture  had  to  be 
made  to  order,  we  could  make  our  changes  but  slowly, 
and  so  refurnished  one  room  at  a  time.  Whenever  a 
load  of  new  furniture  was  brought  to  the  house  Tom 
was  on  hand  to  buy  the  things  we  had  been  using.  1 
must  say  that  he  was  very  honorable  about  the  price, 
for  he  always  brought  a  second-hand-furniture  man 
from  the  city,  and  made  him  value  the  things,  and  he 
then  paid  me  according  to  this  valuation.  I  was  fre- 
quently very  much  surprised  at  the  low  estimates  placed 
on  articles  for  which  I  had  paid  a  good  deal  of  money, 
but  of  course  I  could  not  expect  more  than  the  regular 
second-hand-market  price.  He  brought  a  different 
man  every  time ;  and  their  estimates  were  all  low,  in 
about  the  same  proportion,  so  I  could  not  complain. 
I  do  not  think  he  used  the  men  well,  however,  for  I 
found  out  afterward  that  they  thought  that  he  wanted 
to  sell  the  goods  to  them. 

Tom  was  a  nice  fellow,  of  course,  because  he  was 


182  OUR  FIRE-SCREEN. 

my  wife's  brother,  but  there  were  some  things  about 
him  I  did  not  like.  He  annoyed  me  a  good  deal  by 
coming  around  to  our  house,  after  it  was  newly  fur- 
nished, and  making  remarks  about  the  things. 

"  I  can't  see  the  sense,"  he  said,  one  day,  "  in  imi- 
tating furniture  that  was  made  in  the  days  when  people 
didn't  know  how  to  make  furniture." 

"  Didn't  know  how  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Why,  those 
were  just  the  days  when  they  did  know  how.  Look  at 
that  bedstead  !  Did  you  ever  see  any  thing  more  solid 
and  stanch  and  thoroughly  honest  than  that?  It  will 
last  for  centuries  and  always  be  what  you  see  it  now, 
a  strong,  good,  ash  bedstead." 

" That's  the  mischief  of  it,"  Tom  answered.  "It 
will  alwaj's  be  what  it  is  now.  If  there  was  any  chance 
of  its  improving  I'd  like  it  better.  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly what  you  mean  by  an  honest  bedstead,  but  if  it's 
one  that  a  fellow  wouldn't  wish  to  lie  in,  perhaps  you're 
right.  And  what  do  you  want  with  furniture  that  will 
last  for  centuries?  You  won't  last  for  centuries,  so 
what  difference  can  it  make  to  you  ?  " 

"  Difference  enough,"  I  answered.  "  I  want  none 
of  your  flimsy  modern  furniture.  I  want  well-made 
things,  in  which  the  construction  is  first-class  and  evi- 
dent. Look  at  that  chair,  for  instance ;  you  can  see 
just  how  it  is  put  together." 

"Exactly  so,"  replied  Tom,  "but  what's  the  good 
of  having  one  part  of  a  chair  run  through  another  part 
and  fastened  with  a  peg,  so  that  its  construction  may 
be  evident?  If  those  old  fellows  in  the  Middle  Ages 
had  known  how  to  put  chairs  together  a*  *;eatly  and 


OUR  FIEE-SCREEN.  183 

strongly  as  some  of  our  modern  furniture,  —  such  as 
mine,  for  instance,  which  you  know  well  enough  is  just 
as  strong  as  any  furniture  need  be, — don't  you  sup- 
pose they  would  have  done  it?  Of  course  they  would. 
The  trouble  about  the  construction  of  a  chair  like  that  is 
that  it  makes  your  own  construction  too  evident.  When 
I  sit  in  one  of  them  I  think  I  know  exactly  where  my 
joints  are  put  together,  especially  those  in  my  back." 

Tom  seemed  particularly  to  dislike  the  tiles  that 
were  set  in  many  articles  of  my  new  furniture.  He 
could  not  see  what  was  the  good  of  inserting  crockery 
into  bedsteads  and  writing-desks  ;  and  as  to  the  old 
pictures  on  the  tiles,  he  utterly  despised  them. 

1 '  If  the  old  buffers  who  made  the  originals  of  those 
pictures,"  he  said,  "  had  known  that  free  and  enlight- 
ened citizens  of  the  nineteenth  century  were  going  to 
copy  them  they'd  have  learned  to  draw." 

However,  we  didn't  mind  this  talk  very  much,  and 
we  even  managed  to  smile  when  he  made  fun  and  puns 
and  said : 

"Well,  I  suppose  people  in  your  station  are  bound 
to  do  this  thing,  as  it  certainly  is  stylish."  But  there 
was  one  thing  he  said  that  did  trouble  us.  He  came 
into  the  house  one  morning,  and  remarked : 

"I  don't  want  to  make  you  dissatisfied  with  your 
new  furniture,  but  it  seems  to  me  —  and  to  other  peo- 
ple, too,  for  I've  heard  them  talking  about  it — that 
such  furniture  never  can  look  as  it  ought  to  in  such  a 
house.  In  old  times,  when  the  people  didn't  know 
how  to  make  any  better  furniture  than  this,  they  didn't 
know  how  to  build  decent  houses  either.  They  had  no 


184  OUR  FIRE-SCREEN. 

plate-glass  windows,  or  high  ceilings,  or  hot  and  cold 
water  in  every  room,  or  stationary  wash-tubs,  or  any 
of  that  sort  of  thing.  They  had  small  windows  with 
little  panes  of  glass  set  in  lead,  and  they  had  low 
rooms  with  often  no  ceiling  at  all,  so  that  you  could 
see  the  construction  of  the  floor  overhead,  and  they 
had  all  the  old  inconveniences  that  we  have  cast  aside. 
If  you  want  your  furniture  to  look  like  what  it  makes 
believe  to  be  you  ought  to  have  it  in  a  regular  Middle- 
Age  house, — Elizabethan  or  Mary  Annean,  or  what- 
ever they  call  that  sort  of  architecture.  You  could 
easily  build  such  a  house  —  something  like  that  incon- 
venient edifice  put  up  by  the  English  commissioners  at 
the  Centennial  Exhibition  ;  and  if  you  want  to  sell  this 
house ' ' 

"  Which  I  don't,"  I  replied  quickly.  "If  I  do  any 
thing,  I'll  alter  this  place.  I'm  not  going  to  build 
another." 

As  I  said,  this  speech  of  Tom's  disturbed  us ;  and 
after  talking  about  the  matter  for  some  days  we  deter- 
mined to  be  consistent,  and  we  had  our  house  altered 
so  that  Tom  declared  it  was  a  regular  Eastlake  house 
and  no  mistake.  We  had  a  doleful  time  while  the 
alterations  were  going  on ;  and  when  all  was  dope  and 
we  had  settled  down  to  quiet  again,  we  missed  very 
many  of  the  comforts  and  conveniences  to  which  we 
had  been  accustomed.  But  we  were  getting  used  to 
missing  comfort ;  and  so  we  sat  and  looked  out  of  our 
little  square  window-panes,  and  tried  to  think  the  land- 
scape as  lovely  and  the  sky  as  spacious  and  blue  as 
when  we  viewed  it  through  our  high  and  wide  French- 
plate  windows. 


OUR  FIRE-SCREEN.  185 

But  the  landscape  did  not  look  very  weH,  for  it  was 
not  the  right  kind  of  a  landscape.  We  altered  our 
garden  and  lawn,  and  made  "pleached  alleys"  and 
formal  garden-rows  and  other  old-time  arrangements. 

And  so,  in  time,  we  had  an  establishment  which  was 
consistent,  —  it  all  matched  the  fire-screen,  or  rather 
the  frame  for  a  fire-screen. 

It  might  now  be  supposed  that  Tom  would  let  us 
rest  a  while.  But  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  he.  "  There's  just  one 
thing  more  that  you  need.  You  ought  to  wear  clothes 
to  suit  the  house  and  fui^Hture.  If  you'd  get  an  East- 
lake  coat,  with  a  tile  set  in  the  back  " 

This  was  too  much  ;  I  interrupted  him. 

That  evening  I  took  our  fire-screen  and  I  turned  it 
around.  There  was  a  blank  expanse  on  the  back  of 
it,  and  on  this  I  painted,  with  a  brush  and  some  black 
paint,  —  with  which  my  wife  had  been  painting  storks 
on  some  odd-shaped  red  clay  pottery,  —  the  following 
lines  from  Dante's  "  Inferno :  " 

"Soltaro  finichezza  poldo  viner 

Glabo  icce  suzza  sil 
Valuchicho  mazza  cliuri 
Provenza  succi — y  gli." 

This  is  intended  to  mean  : 

"  Why,  oh,  why  have  I  taken 
And  thrown  away  my  comfort  on  earth, 
And  descended  into  an  old-fashioned  hell ! " 

But  as  I  do  not  understand  Italian  it  is  not  likely  that 
any  of  the  words  I  wrote  are  correct ;  but  it  makes  no 
difference,  as  so  few  persons  understand  the  language 


186  OUR  FIRE-SCREEN. 

and  I  can  always  tell  them  what  I  meant  the  inscription 
to  mean.  The  "y"  and  the  4'gli"  are  real  Italian 
and  I  will  not  attempt  to  translate  them  —  but  they 
look  well  and  give  an  air  of  proper  construction  to  the 
whole.  I  might  have  written  the  thing  in  Old  English, 
but  that  is  harder  for  me  than  Italian.  The  transla- 
tion, which  is  my  own,  I  tried  to  make,  as  nearly  as 
possible,  consistent  with  Dante's  poem. 

A  few  days  after  this  I  went  over  to  Tom's  house. 
A  brighter,  cosier  house  you  never  saw.  I  threw 
myself  into  one  of  my  ex- arm-chairs.  I  lay  back ;  I 
stretched  out  my  legs  under  a  table,  —  I  could  never 
stretch  out  my  legs  under  one  of  my  own  tables  because 
they  had  heavy  Eastlake  bars  under  them,  and  you  had 
to  sit  up  and  keep  your  legs  at  an  Eastlake  angle.  I 
drew  a  long  sigh  of  satisfaction.  Around  me  were  all 
the  pretty,  tasteful,  unsuitable  things  that  Tom  had 
bought  from  us  —  at  eighty-seven  per  cent  off.  Our 
own  old  spirit  of  home  comfort  seemed  to  be  here.  I 
sprang  from  my  chair. 

"  Tom,"  I  cried,  "  what  will  you  take  for  this  house, 
this  furniture  —  every  thing  just  as  it  stands?" 

Tom  named  a  sum.     I  closed  the  bargain. 

We  live  in  Tom's  house  now,  and  two  happier  people 
are  not  easily  found.  Tom  wanted  me  to  sell  him  my 
re-modelled  house,  but  I  wouldn't  do  it.  He  would 
alter  things.  I  rent  it  to  him  ;  and  he  has  to  live  there, 
for  he  can  get  no  other  house  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  is  not  the  cheerful  fellow  he  used  to  be,  but  his  wife 
comes  over  to  see  us  very  often. 


A  PIECE  OF  RED  CALICO. 


"A/TR.  EDITOR:  If  the  following  true  experience 
-*-*-*-  shall  prove  of  any  advantage  to  any  of  your 
readers,  I  shall  be  glad. 

I  was  going  into  town  the  other  morning,  when  my 
wife  handed  me  a  little  piece  of  red  calico,  and  asked 
me  if  I  would  have  time,  during  the  day,  to  buy  her 
two  yards  and  a  half  of  calico  like  that.  I  assured 
her  that  it  would  be  no  trouble  at  all ;  and  putting 
the  piece  of  calico  in  my  pocket,  I  took  the  train  for  the 
city. 

At  lunch-time  I  stopped  in  at  a  large  dry-goods 
store  to  attend  to  my  wife's  commission.  I  saw  a  well- 
dressed  man  walking  the  floor  between  the  counters, 
where  long  lines  of  girls  were  waiting  on  much  longer 
lines  of  customers,  and  asked  him  where  I  could  see 
some  reel  calico. 

"  This  way,  sir,"  and  he  led  me  up  the  store.  "  Miss 
Stone,"  said  he  to  a  young  lady,  "  show  this  gentle- 
man some  red  calico." 

*'  What  shade  do  you  want?  "  asked  Miss  Stone. 

I  showed  her  the  little  piece  of  calico  that  my  wif» 

187 


188  A   PIECE  OF  RED  CALICO. 

had  given  me.  She  looked  at  it  and  handed  it  back  to 
me.  Then  she  took  down  a  great  roll  of  red  calico 
and  spread  it  out  on  the  counter. 

44  Why,  that  isn't  the  shade  !  "  said  I. 

"No,  not  exactly,"  said  she;  "but  it  is  prettier 
than  your  sample." 

44  That  may  be,"  said  I ;  "  but,  you  see,  i  want  to 
match  this  piece.  There  is  something  already  made  of 
this  kind  of  calico,  which  needs  to  be  made  larger,  or 
mended,  or  something.  I  want  some  calico  of  the 
same  shade." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but  took  down  another 
roll. 

•4  That's  the  shade,"  said  she. 

44  Yes,"  I  replied,  44  but  it's  striped. 

44  Stripes  are  more  worn  than  any  thing  else  in  cali- 
coes," said  she. 

44  Yes ;  but  this  isn't  to  be  worn.  It's  for  furniture, 
I  think.  At  any  rate,  I  want  perfectly  plain  stuff,  to 
match  something  already  in  use." 

44  Well,  I  don't  think  you  can  find  it  perfectly  plain, 
unless  you  get  Turkey  red." 

44  What  is  Turkey  red?  "  I  asked. 

44  Turkey  red  is  perfectly  plain  in  calicoes,"  she 
answered. 

kt  Well,  let  me  see  some." 

44  We  haven't  any  Turkey  red  calico  left,"  she  said, 
fc4  but  we  have  some  very  nice  plain  calicoes  in  other 
colors." 

4k  I  don't  want  any  other  color.  I  want  stuff  to 
match  this." 


A   PIECE  OF  RED   CALICO.  189 

"It's  hard  to  match  cheap  calico  like  that,"  she 
said,  and  so  I  left  her. 

I  next  went  into  a  store  a  few  doors  farther  up 
Broadway.  When  I  entered  I  approached  the  "  floor- 
walker," and  handing  him  my  sample,  said : 

"  Have  you  any  calico  like  this?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  he.     "  Third  counter  to  the  right/' 

I  went  to  the  third  counter  to  the  right,  and  showed 
my  sample  to  the  salesman  in  attendance  there.  He 
looked  at  it  on  both  sides.  Then  he  said : 

"  We  haven't  any  of  this." 

"  That  gentleman  said  you  had,"  said  I. 

"We  had  it,  but  we're  out  of  it  now.  You'll  get 
that  goods  at  an  upholsterer's." 

I  went  across  the  street  to  an  upholsterer's. 

"  Have  you  any  stuff  like  this?  "  I  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  salesman.  "We  haven't.  Is  it 
for  furniture?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  Turkey  red  is  what  you  want?  " 

"  Is  Turkey  red  just  like  this?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  he  ;  "  but  it's  much  better." 

"  That  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  I  replied.  "  I 
want  something  just  like  this." 

"  But  they  don't  use  that  for  furniture,"  he  said. 

4 '  I  should  think  people  could  use  any  thing  they 
wanted  for  furniture,"  I  remarked,  somewhat  sharply. 

"  They  can,  but  they  don't,"  he  said  quite  calmly. 
"  They  don't  use  red  like  that.  They  use  Turkey  red. " 

I  said  no  more,  but  left.  The  next  place  I  visited 
was  a  very  large  dry-goods  store.  Of  the  first  sales- 


190  A  PIECE  OF  E ED   CALICO. 

man  I  saw  I  inquired  if  they  kept  red  calico  like  my 
sample. 

"  You'll  find  that  on  the  second  story, "  said  he. 

I  went  up-stairs.     There  I  asked  a  man  : 

"  Where  will  I  find  red  calico?  " 

"In  the  far  room  to  the  left.  Right  over  there/* 
And  he  pointed  to  a  distant  corner. 

I  walked  through  the  crowds  of  purchasers  and 
salespeople,  and  around  the  counters  and  tables  filled 
with  goods,  to  the  far  room  to  the  left.  When  I  got 
there  I  asked  for  red  calico. 

"The  second  counter  down  this  side,"  said  the 
man." 

I  went  there  and  produced  my  sample.  "  Calicoes 
down-stairs,"  said  the  man. 

"  They  told  me  they  were  up  here,"  I  said. 

"Not  these  plain  goods.  You'll  find  'em  down- 
stairs at  the  back  of  the  store,  over  on  that  side. 

I  went  down-stairs  to  the  back  of  the  store. 

"  Where  will  I  find  red  calico  like  this?  "  I  asked. 

"  Next  counter  but  one,"  said  the  man  addressed, 
walking  with  me  in  the  direction  pointed  out. 

"  Dunn,  show  red  calicoes." 

Mr.  Dunn  took  my  sample  and  looked  at  it. 

"  We  haven't  this  shade  in  that  quality  of  goods," 
he  said. 

"Well,  have  you  it  in  any  quality  of  goods?"  I 
asked. 

"Yes;  we've  got  it  finer."  And  he  took  down  a 
piece  of  calico,  and  unrolled  a  yard  or  two  of  it  on  the 
counter. 


A  PIECE  OF  RED   CALICO.  191 

44  That's  not  this  shade,"  I  said. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "The  goods  is  finer  and  the  col- 
or's better." 

"  I  want  it  to  match  this,"  I  said. 

44 1  thought  you  weren't  particular  about  the  match," 
said  the  salesman.  "  You  said  you  didn't  care  for  the 
quality  of  the  goods,  and  you  know  you  can't  match 
goods  without  you  take  into  consideration  quality  and 
color  both.  If  you  want  that  quality  of  goods  in  red, 
you  ought  to  get  Turkey  red." 

I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  answer  this  remark, 
but  said : 

44  Then  you've  got  nothing  to  match  this?  " 

44  No,  sir.  But  perhaps  they  may  have  it  in  the 
upholstery  department,  in  the  sixth  story." 

So  I  got  in  the  elevator  and  went  up  to  the  top  of 
the  house. 

4  4  Have  you  any  red  stuff  like  this  ?  "  I  said  to  a 
young  man. 

"Red  stuff?  Upholstery  department,  —  other  end 
of  this  floor." 

I  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  floor. 

44  I  want  some  red  calico,"  I  said  to  a  man. 

44  Furniture  goods?  "  he  asked. 

44  Yes/'  said  I. 

44  Fourth  counter  to  the  left." 

I  went  to  the  fourth  counter  to  the  left,  and  showed 
my  sample  to  a  salesman.  He  looked  at  it,  and  said  : 

44  You'll  get  this  down  on  the  first  floor  —  calico 
department. ' ' 

I  turned  on  my  heel,  descended  in  the  elevator,  and 


192  A  PIECE  OF  RED   CALICO. 

went  out  on  Broadway.  I  was  thoroughly  sick  of  red 
calico.  But  I  determined  to  make  one  more  trial.  My 
wife  had  bought  her  red  calico  not  long  before,  and 
there  must  be  some  to  be  had  somewhere.  I  ought  to 
have  asked  her  where  she  bought  it,  but  I  thought  a 
simple  little  thing  like  that  could  be  bought  anywhere. 

I  went  into  another  large  dry-goods  store.  As  I 
entered  the  door  a  sudden  tremor  seized  me.  I  could 
not  bear  to  take  out  that  piece  of  red  calico.  If  I  had 
had  any  other  kind  of  a  rag  about  me  —  a  pen-wiper 
or  any  thing  of  the  sort  —  1  think  I  would  have  asked 
them  if  they  could  match  that. 

But  I  stepped  up  to  a  young  woman  and  presented 
my  sample,  with  the  usual  question. 

"  Back  room,  counter  on  the  left/'  she  said. 

I  went  there. 

"  Have  you  any  red  calico  like  this  ?  "  I  asked  of  the 
lady  behind  the  counter. 

"No,  sir,"  she  said,  "but  we  have  it  in  Turkey 
red/' 

Turkey  red  again !     I  surrendered. 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "  give  me  Turkey  red." 

"  How  much,  sir?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  —  say  five  yards." 

The  lady  looked  at  me  rather  strangely,  but  meas- 
ured off  five  yards  of  Turkey  red  calico.  Then  she 
rapped  on  the  counter  and  called  out  ' '  cash !  "  A 
little  girl,  with  yellow  hair  in  two  long  plaits,  came 
slowly  up.  The  lady  wrote  the  number  of  yards,  the 
name  of  the  goods,  her  own  number,  the  price,  the 
amount  of  the  bank-note  I  handed  her,  and  some  other 


A   PIECE  OF  RED   CALICO.  193 

matters,  probably  the  color  of  my  eyes,  and  the  direc- 
tion and  velocity  of  the  wind,  on  a  slip  of  paper.  She 
then  copied  all  this  in  a  little  book  which  she  kept  by 
her.  Then  she  handed  the  slip  of  paper,  the  money, 
and  the  Turkey  red  to  the  yellow-haired  girl.  This 
young  girl  copied  the  slip  in  a  little  book  she  carried, 
and  then  she  went  away  with  the  calico,  the  paper  slip, 
and  the  money. 

After  a  very  long  time,  —  during  which  the  little 
girl  probably  took  the  goods,  the  money,  and  the  slip 
to  some  central  desk,  where  the  note  was  received,  its 
amount  and  number  entered  in  a  book,  change  given 
to  the  girl,  a  copy  of  the  slip  made  and  entered,  girl's 
entry  examined  and  approved,  goods  wrapped  up,  girl 
registered,  plaits  counted  and  entered  on  a  slip  of 
paper  and  copied  by  the  girl  in  her  book,  girl  taken  to 
a  hydrant  and  washed,  number  of  towel  entered  on  a 
paper  slip  and  copied  by  the  girl  in  her  book,  value  of 
my  note  and  amount  of  change  branded  somewhere  on 
the  child,  and  said  process  noted  on  a  slip  of  paper  and 
copied  in  her  book,  —  the  girl  came  to  me,  bringing 
my  change  and  the  package  of  Turkey  red  calico. 

I  had  time  for  but  very  little  work  at  the  office  that 
afternoon,  and  when  I  reached  home,  I  handed  the 
package  of  calico  to  my  wife.  She  unrolled  it  and 
exclaimed : 

44  Why,  this  don't  match  the  piece  I  gave  you !  " 

44  Match  it !  "  I  cried.  44  Oh,  no !  it  don't  match  it. 
You  didn't  want  that  matched.  You  were  mistaken. 
What  you  wanted  was  Turkey  red  —  third  counter  to 
the  left.  I  mean,  Turkey  red  is  what  they  use." 


194  A  PIECE  OF  RED  CALICO. 

My  wife  looked  at  me  in  amazement,  and  then  1 
detailed  to  her  my  troubles. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  this  Turkey  red  is  a  great  deal 
prettier  than  what  I  had,  and  you've  got  so  much  of 
it  that  I  needn't  use  the  other  at  all.  I  wish  I  had 
thought  of  Turkey  red  before." 

"  I  wish  from  my  heart  you  had,"  said  I. 

ANDREW  SCOGGIN 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER. 


[MB.  EDITOR:  I  find,  in  looking  over  the  various  "  Complete 
Letter-writers,"  where  so  many  persons  of  limited  opportu- 
nities find  models  for  their  epistolary  correspondence,  that  there 
are  many  contingencies  incident  to  our  social  and  domestic  life 
which  have  not  been  provided  for  in  any  of  these  hooks.  I 
therefore  send  you  a  few  models  of  letters  suitable  to  various 
occasions,  which  I  think  may  be  found  useful.  I  have  endeav- 
ored, as  nearly  as  possible,  to  preserve  the  style  and  diction  in 
use  in  the  ordinary  "  Letter-writers." 

Yours,  etc.,       F.  R.  S.J 

No.  1. 

From  a  little  girl  living  with  an  unmarried  aunt,  to  her 
mother,  the  widow  of  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  who  is 
engaged  as  matron  of  an  Institution  for  Deaf  Mutes, 
in  Wyoming  Territory. 

NEW  BBUNSWICK,  N.J.,  Aug.  12th,  1877. 

REVERED  PARENT:  As  the  morning  sun  rose,  this 
day,  upon  the  sixth  anniversary,  both  of  my  birth  and 
of  my  introduction  to  one  who,  though  separated  from 
me  by  vast  and  apparently  limitless  expanses  of  terri- 
tory, is  not  only  my  maternal  parent  but  my  most 
trustworthy  coadjutor  in  all  points  of  duty,  propriety 
and  social  responsibility,  I  take  this  opportunity  of 

196 


196      EVERT  MAN  HIS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER. 

assuring  you  of  the  tender  and  sympathetic  affection  I 
feel  for  you,  and  of  the  earnest  solicitude  with  which 
I  ever  regard  you.  I  take  pleasure  in  communicating 
the  intelligence  of  my  admirable  physical  condition,  and 
hoping  that  you  will  continue  to  preserve  the  highest 
degree  of  health  compatible  with  your  age  and  arduous 
duties,  I  am, 

Your  affectionate  and  dutiful  daughter, 

MARIA  STANLEY, 

No.  2. 

From  a  young  gentleman,  who  having  injured  the  mus* 
cles  of  the  back  of  his  neck  by  striking  them  whilt 
swimming,  on  a  pane  of  glass,  shaken  from  the  win- 
dow of  a  fore-and-aft  schooner,  by  a  severe  collision 
with  a  wagon  loaded  with  stone,  which  had  been  upset 
in  a  creek,  in  reply  to  a  cousin  by  marriage  who  in- 
vites him  to  invest  his  savings  in  a  patent  machine 
for  the  disintegration  of  mutton  suet. 

BELLEVILLE  HOSPITAL,  CENTER  Co.,  O., 
Jan. 12, 1877. 

MY  RESPECTED  COUSIN:  The  incoherency  of  your 
request  with  my  condition  [liere  state  the  condition]  is 
so  forcibly  impressed  upon  my  sentient  faculties  [enu- 
merate and  define  the  faculties']  that  I  cannot  refrain 
from  endeavoring  to  avoid  any  hesitancy  in  making  an 
effort  to  produce  the  same  or  a  similar  impression  upon 
your  perceptive  capabilities.  With  kindest  regards  for 
the  several  members  of  your  household  [indicate  the 
members'],  I  am  ever, 

Your  attached  relative, 

MARTIN  JORDAN. 


EVERT  MAN  mS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER.      197 

No.   3. 

From  a  superintendent  of  an  iron-foundry,  to  a  lady 
who  refused  his  hand  in  her  youth,  and  who  has  since 
married  an  inspector  of  customs  in  one  of  the  south- 
ern states,  requesting  her,  in  case  of  her  husband's 
decease,  to  give  him  permission  to  address  her,  with 
a  view  to  a  matrimonial  alliance. 

BRIEK  IKON  MILLS,  Secauqua,  111.,  July  7,  '77. 

DEAR  MADAM  :  Although  I  am  fully  aware  of  the 
robust  condition  of  your  respected  husband's  health, 
and  of  your  tender  affection  for  him  and  your  little 
ones,  I  am  impelled  by  a  sense  of  the  propriety  of  pro- 
viding in  time  for  the  casualties  and  fortuities  of  the 
future,  to  ask  of  you  permission,  in  case  of  your 
(at  present  unexpected)  widowhood,  to  renew  the  ad- 
dresses which  were  broken  off  by  your  marriage  to 
your  present  estimable  consort. 

An  early  answer  will  oblige, 

Yours  respectfully, 

JOHN  PICKETT. 

No.  4. 

From  a  cook-maid  in  the  family  of  a  dealer  in  silver- 
plated  casters,  to  the  principal  of  a  boarding-school, 
enclosing  the  miniature  of  her  suitor. 

1317  EAST  17-TH  ST.,  N.Y.,  July  30,  '77. 

VENERATED  MADAM  :  The  unintermittent  interest  you 
have  perpetually  indicated  in  the  direction  of  my  well- 
being  stimulates  me  to  announce  my  approaching  con- 


198      EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER. 

jugal  association  with  a  gentleman  fully  my  peer  in  all 
that  regards  social  position  or  mental  aspiration,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  to  desire  of  you,  in  case  of  the  abrupt 
dissolution  of  the  connection  between  myself  and  my 
present  employers,  that  you  will  permit  me  to  perform, 
for  a  suitable  remuneration,  the  lavatory  processes 
necessary  for  the  habiliments  of  your  pupils. 
Your  respectful  well-wisher, 

SUSAN  MAGUIPwE. 

No.  5. 

From  a  father  to  his  son  at  school,  in  answer  to  a  letter 
asking  for  an  increase  of  pocket-money. 

MY  DEAR  JOSEPH  :  Your  letter  asking  for  an  aug- 
mentation of  your  pecuniary  stipend  has  been  received, 
together  with  a  communication  from  your  preceptor, 
relative  to  your  demeanor  at  the  seminary.  Permit 
me  to  say,  that  should  I  ever  again  peruse  an  epistle 
similar  to  either  of  these,  you  may  confidently  antici- 
pate, on  your  return  to  my  domicile,  an  excoriation  of 
the  cuticle  which  will  adhere  to  your  memory  for  a 
term  of  years. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

HENRY  BAILEY. 

No.  6. 

From  the  author  of  a  treatise  on  molecular  subdivision, 
who  has  been  rejected  by  the  daughter  of  a  cascarilla- 
bark-refiner,  whose  uncle  has  recently  been  paid  sixty- 
three  dollars  for  repairing  a  culvert  in  Indianapolis, 
to  the  tailor  of  a  converted  Jew  on  the  eastern  shore 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER.      199 

of  Maryland,  who  has  requested  the  loan  of  a  hypo- 
dermic syringe. 

WEST  ORANGE,  Jan.  2, 1877. 

DEAR  SIR  :  Were  it  not  for  unexpected  obstacles, 
which  have  most  unfortuitously  arisen,  to  a  connec- 
tion which  I  hoped,  at  an  early  date,  to  announce,  but 
which,  now,  may  be  considered,  by  the  most  sanguine 
observer,  as  highly  improbable,  I  might  have  been  able 
to  obtain  a  pecuniary  loan  from  a  connection  of  the 
parties  with  whom  I  had  hoped  to  be  connected,  which 
would  have  enabled  me  to  redeem,  from  the  hands  of 
an  hypothecater  the  instrument  you  desire,  but  which 
now  is  as  unattainable  to  you  as  it  is  to 

Yours  most  truly, 

THOMAS  FINLEY. 

No.  7. 

From  an  embassador  to  Tunis,  who  has  become  deaf  in 
his  left  ear,  to  the  widow  of  a  manufacturer  of  per- 
forated under-clothing,  whose  second  son  has  never 
been  vaccinated. 

TUNIS,  AFRICA,  Aug.  3,  '77. 

MOST  HONORED  MADAM  :  Permit  me,  I  most  ear- 
nestly implore  of  you,  from  the  burning  sands  of  this 
only  too  far  distant  foreign  clime  to  call  to  the  notice 
of  your  reflective  and  judicial  faculties  the  fact  that 
there  are  actions  which  may  be  deferred  until  too 
recent  a  period. 

With  the  earnest  assurance  of  my  most  distinguished 
regard,  I  am,  most  honored  and  exemplary  madam, 
your  obedient  servant  to  command, 

L.   GKANYILLE  TIBBS. 


200      EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  LETTER-WRITER. 

No.    8. 

From  a  hog-and-cattle  reporter  on  a  morning  paper, 
who  has  just  had  his  hair  cut  by  a  barber  whose  father 
fell  off"  a  wire-bridge  in  the  early  part  of  1867,  to  a 
gardener,  who  has  written  to  him  that  a  tortoise-shell 
cat,  belonging  to  the  widow  of  a  stage-manager,  has 
dug  up  a  bed  of  calceolarias,  the  seed  of  which  had 
been  sent  him  by  the  cashier  of  a  monkey-wrench 
factory,  which  had  been  set  on  Jire  by  a  one-armed 
tramp,  whose  mother  had  been  a  sempstress  in  the 
family  of  a  Hicksite  Quaker. 

NEW  YORK,  Jan.  2,  '77. 

DEAR  SIR  :  In  an  immense  metropolis  like  this, 
where  scenes  of  woe  and  sorrow  meet  my  pitying 
eye  at  every  glance,  and  where  the  living  creatures, 
the  observation  and  consideration  of  which  give  me 
the  means  of  maintenance,  are,  always,  if  deemed  in  a 
proper  physical  condition,  destined  to  an  early  grave, 
I  can  only  afford  a  few  minutes  to  condole  with  you 
on  the  loss  you  so  feelingly  announce.  These  minutes 
I  now  have  given. 

Very  truly  yours, 

HENRY  DAWSON. 
No.  9. 

From  the  wife  of  a  farmer,  who,  having  sewed  rags 
enough  to  make  a  carpet,  is  in  doubt  whether  to 
sell  the  rags,  and  with  the  money  buy  a  mince-meat 
chopper  and  two  cochin-china  hens  of  an  old  lady, 
who,  having  been  afflicted  with  varicose  veins,  has 
determined  to  send  her  nephew,  who  has  been  working 
for  a  pump-maker  in  the  neighboring  village,  but  who 


E  VEE  T  MA N  HIS  O  WN  LETTER-  WRITER.      201 

comes  home  at  night  to  sleep,  to  a  school  kept  by  a 
divinity  student  whose  father  has  been  educated  by  the 
clergyman  who  had  married  her  father  and  mother, 
and  to  give  up  her  little  farm  and  go  to  East  Dur~ 
ham,  N.Y.,  to  live  with  a  cousin  of  her  mother, 
named  Amos  Murdoch,  or  to  have  the  carpet  made 
up  by  a  weaver  who  had  bought  oats  from  her  hus- 
band, for  a  horse  which  had  been  lent  to  him  for  his 
keep  —  being  a  little  tender  in  his  fore-feet  —  by  a  city 
doctor,  but  who  would  still  owe  two  or  three  dollars 
after  the  carpet  was  woven,  and  keep  it  until  her 
daughter,  who  was  married  to  a  dealer  in  second- 
hand blowing-engines  for  agitating  oil,  should  come 
to  make  her  a  visit,  and  then  put  it  down  in  her 
second-story  front  chamber,  with  a  small  piece  of 
another  rag-carpet,  which  had  been  under  a  bed,  and 
was  not  worn  at  all,  in  a  recess  which  it  would  be  a 
pity  to  cut  a  new  carpet  to  Jit,  to  an  unmarried  sister 
who  keeps  house  for  an  importer  of  Limoges  faience. 

GREENVILLE,  July  20,  '77. 

DEAR  MARIA  :  Now  that  my  winter  labors,  so  un- 
avoidably continued  through  the  vernal  season  until 
now,  are  happily  concluded,  I  cannot  determine,  by 
any  mental  process  with  which  I  am  familiar,  what 
final  disposition  of  the  proceeds  of  my  toil  would  be 
most  conducive  to  my  general  well-being.  If,  there- 
fore, you  will  bend  the  energies  of  your  intellect  upon 
the  solution  of  this  problem,  you  will  confer  a  most 
highly  appreciated  favor  upon 

Your  perplexed  sister, 

AMANDA  DANIELS. 


FRANK  R.  STOCKTON'S 
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NOVELS  AND  SHORT  STORIES  BY  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON 


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THE  RUDDER  GRANGERS  ABROAD 

And  Other  Stories.     I2mo,  paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

"  It  will  be  eagerly  sought  by  all  old  friends  of  Pomona  and  Jonas  and  the  other 
characters  who  have  so  delighted  the  numberless  readers  of  Rudder  Grange.'  " 

—  The  Outlook. 

THE  LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER? 

And  Other  Stories.     I2mo,  paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

"  His  unique  stories  always  hit  the  mark.  But  '  The  Lady,  or  the  Tiger? '  was 
a  shaft  condensed  from  the  entire  Stocktonese." — Century  Magazine. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK 

And  Other  Stories.     I2mo,  paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

"With  the  charm  of  a  most  delicate  humor,  his  stories  become  irresistibly  at- 
tractive."— Philadelphia  Times. 


NOVELS  AND  SHORT  STORIES  BY  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON 

THE  BEEMAN   OF  ORN 

And  Other  Fanciful  Tales.     I2mo,  $1.25. 

"  It  would  be  idle  to  describe  the  fanciful  humor  of  these  stories.    To  read  them 
is  simple  recreation." — London  Athenczum, 

AMOS   KILBRIGHT 

His  Adscititious  Experiences.     With  Other  Stories.      I2mo,  paper, 

50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

"  A  collection  of  inimitable  tales.    The  writer's  whimsical  humor  and  inventive 
genius  find  fitting  scope  in  the  title  story."— Boston  Commonwealth. 

ARDIS   CLAVERDEN 

I2mo,  $1.25. 
"  A  very  pretty  story,  tender,  and  full  of  gentle  humor."— Philadelphia  Press. 

*#*  The  set,  nine  volumes,  i2mo,  $11.50. 


MR.  STOCKTON'S  BOOKS  FOR  THE  YOUNG 

"  His  books  for  boys  and  girls  are  classics."— Newark  Advertiser. 

THE  CLOCKS  OF  RONDAINE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  With 
24  illustrations  by  BLASHFIELD,  ROGERS,  BEARD,  and  others. 
Square  8vo,  $1.50. 

PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED.  Illustrated  by  PENNELL,  PAR- 
SONS,  and  others.  Square  8vo,  $2.00. 

THE  STORY  OF  VITEAU.  Illustrated  by  R.  B.  BIRCH.  i2mo, 
$1.50. 

A  JOLLY   FELLOWSHIP.     With  20  illustrations.     i2mo,  $1.50. 

THE  FLOATING  PRINCE  AND  OTHER  FAIRY  TALES. 
Illustrated.  Square  8vo,  $1.50. 

THE   TING-A-LING  TALES.     Illustrated.     I2mo,  $1.00. 

ROUNDABOUT  RAMBLES  IN  LANDS  OF  FACT  AND 
FICTION.  Illustrated.  Square  8vo,  $1.50. 

TALES  OUT  OF  SCHOOL.  With  nearly  200  illustrations. 
Square  8vo,  $1.50. 


NOVELS  AND  SHORT  STORIES  BY  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON 


IN  UNIFORM  STYLE.     ILLUSTRATED  BY  A.  B.  FROST 

POMONA'S  TRAVELS 


-1C 


JONK  AND  POMONA. 


A  Series  of  Letters  to  the  Mistress 
of  Rudder  Grange  from  her 
Former  Handmaiden.  Fully 
illustrated  by  A.  B.  FROST.  i2mo, 
$2.00. 

"It  forms  one  of  the  most  delightful 
books  Mr.  Stockton  has  ever  written.  It 
is  capital  reading,  and  will  more  firmly 
establish  Mr.  Stockton  in  his  place  with 
Bret  Harte  among  contemporary  Amer- 
ican writers.  Mr.  Frost's  pictures  are  all 
admirable."— New  York  Times. 

"It  will  oe  remembered  that  Pomona 
married  a  certain  Jonas,  a  young  man  of 
eccentric  ways  and  dry  humor.  They 
make  a  journey  abroad,  and  their  expe- 
riences are  as  enjoyable  as  those  of  the  days 
at  Rudder  Grange.  The  book  is  capitally 
illustrated."— Boston  Transcript. 


RUDDER  GRANGE 

With  over  100  illustrations  by  A.  B.  FROST.      i2mo,  gilt  top,  $2.00. 

"  It  is  possible  that  there  are  readers  and  buyers  of  books  who  have  yet  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  '  Rudder  Grange.'  If  so,  it  is  hard  to  tell  whether  they  are 
objects  of  pity  or  envy— pity  for  having  lost  so  much  enjoyment,  or  envy  for  the 
pleasure  that  is  still  in  store  for  them."— Philadelphia  Times. 

"  Mr.  Frost's  suggestive  illustrations  add  greatly  to  the  attractiveness  of  Mr. 
Stockton's  famous  story.  He  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  book,  and  sketched  its 
leading  characters  and  scenes  with  rare  humor." — London  Literary  World. 


*#*  The  above  two 
books,  handsomely  bound 
in  uniform  style,  with 
special  cover  designs  by 
A.  B.  Frost,  gilt  top, 
izmo,  in  a  box,  $4.00. 


RUDDER  GRANGE. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

153-157  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


MAV3177 

MAY  23 M 

i     r?s 

'MAY  4   1978  W'D 

JUN  4 '84     * 

JUN     6  1984  REC'D 

I  AN  2  4 1992    * 

JAN  2  9  1992REC'D 

FEB181992    .« 
21  1992fifC'fl 

50m-l,'69(J564388)2373— 3A.1 


SJ" 2106 


35536  8268 


